


Speech Making

by phalangine



Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Jane Austen Fusion, Canon Jewish Character, Canonical Child Abuse, Charles Always Says the Absolute Worst Thing He Could Possibly Say, Erik Has Feelings, F/F, F/M, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Matchmaking, Misunderstandings, sharon you will be drunk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-14
Updated: 2016-06-10
Packaged: 2018-06-08 06:54:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 52,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6843802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phalangine/pseuds/phalangine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Modern Emma AU- Charles Xavier, accomplished matchmaker and headmaster of North America’s preeminent school for mutants, intends to add another notch to his belt: setting up his friend Moira. His oldest friend, Erik, has doubts about this plan.</p><p>Charles doesn’t share them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This doesn’t follow the original book’s plot perfectly, but if you’re familiar with it- or a live action adaptation- you ought to find a few parallels and nods to the original.
> 
> All opening quotations are from Muriel Rukeyser’s [“Effort at Speech Between Two People”](http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems-and-poets/poems/detail/56285) (cw for suicidal ideation in the fifth stanza)

_Take my hand. Speak to me._

There are weddings, there are big weddings, and there are Xavier weddings. Looking around at the ballroom covered in rainbow streamers and the dancers covered in confetti, Charles has to smile. Raven's wedding is as beautiful as anything their ancestors could have come up with, and it has the benefit of being a genuine celebration of a genuinely happy couple. As much as Charles loves Irene, though, the tears prickling his eyes are all for his sister. Raven is radiant in her white dress, a look of adoration on her face as she twirls and swings her bride around the room, deftly dodging other couples. She gave in and dealt with all the trials that come with wearing a dress tailored by another’s hands rather than Raven’s own genetics.

For a long time, Charles had thought they would never get here. If Raven got married, she was sure not to invite him. If Charles did, she would not have come if he even invited her. A chance introduction of his sister to the school's newest teacher had been the one thing able to thaw the ice between them.

Irene makes Raven happy, and if that had been all, Charles would have been happy. But she gave him his sister back as well. It was her influence that helped them learn to listen to each other better, to talk more carefully until they finally got on the same page.

And she helped Raven realize the one girly dream she's always had: being a June bride.

Swiping once more at the tears that refuse to leave him be- it was worse during the ceremony, quick though it was with one of Charles' students turned justice of the peace officiating it- he doesn't notice he has company until a familiar voice interrupts his studied contemplation of his eyelids.

"No Mrs. Xavier?"

He would know that mild tone anywhere. Smiling, Charles gives a friendly shove at the man whose mind he now senses in the chair next to him.

"You missed her, I'm afraid," Charles explains, blinking his eyes open. "She came for the ceremony, but Raven sent her back to bed when she mentioned she was feeling unwell. She'll be happy to hear you asked about her, though."

Erik shakes his head, but his expression refuses to settle into the usual mocking smile he saves for Charles. His mouth keeps twitching into an honestly pleased smile.

"What's got you so happy?" Charles asks suspiciously. The last time he saw Erik smile this widely was their first over twenty-one Purim and Erik was recounting to his family a series of mortifying tales of Charles' early fumbling with kosher food to their obvious amusement. "I haven't spilled anything on myself, have I?"

"You're fine." Erik waves his concern away. "I'm happy because I like weddings." He must sense Charles' confusion- or Charles projected it at him, hard to tell when he's been steadily working through the exorbitant bottles of champagne-  because he sighs and wiggles enough to slouch deeper against his folding chair. Gesturing at the happy couple stumbling toward the cake, he elaborates, "Just because Magda and I didn't work out doesn't mean I can't be glad for people who might. Besides, we're friends again. She said so herself."

Charles feels his brows shoot up. "Last I heard, she never wanted to see your face again."

"A misunderstanding. We talked it out, and we're fine now."

Charles' gift says there was more to it than that, but Erik's face has gone tight. If there is a good time to push his friend, now is not it. The bellyful of champagne and the goodwill it has suffused through him ensures Charles doesn't do something stupid like push anyway.

"I'm glad you made up," he says instead, resting a hand on Erik's arm. Forcing his slippery thoughts into order is a herculean task, but he wants to say this right. "You always did take it hard when Magda was upset with you. I hate seeing you so unhappy."

For some reason, that makes Erik raise his brows. Charles doesn't get long to wonder why before Erik is quirking a grin at him.

"Don't tell me I missed your mother _and_ the sight of you dancing."

"You should have got here faster," Charles tells him happily. "Raven and I did a lovely rendition of the chicken dance."

Erik narrows his eyes. "I can't tell if you're joking." Charles shrugs, unrepentantly reveling in the disbelief building in his friend's mind. "Come on, Charles. Raven would never have allowed it."

"I think you'll find that the happiest day of her life left my sister rather more tolerant than usual." Unable to resist, he adds, "Last I heard, Darwin was in charge of working the camera."

As ever, Erik can't help himself. He is up and striding away in a fraction of a second. Charles senses his mind sharpening as he searches for Darwin. The poor man volunteered to do it all for free before he knew the size of the reception; the check Charles wrote as compensation for all the extra work Darwin put in is useless now. Setting Erik on him deserves at least twenty dollars extra. That was the price Charles set for any student willing to distract his friend from noticing a hungover Charles sneaking in after late weekends out; it only seems fair to add it. Even if Erik was always fond of the boy and never quite managed to talk Darwin into ratting on Charles.

Now an adult, Darwin has grown into his own. It will take Erik time to weasel a camera from him- which he will have to do if he doesn't want to risk Raven's wrath for ruining her photos with his gift. That leaves Charles with plenty of time to grab another glass of bubbly...

_You stay where you are._

The order is unexpected but shouldn't be. Erik has a sixth sense for anticipating Charles' plans.

 _Hurry up then,_ Charles grouches. _And bring me a drink._

Erik's mental eye roll is unmistakable, but Charles knows he'll get his drink. Weddings always used to put Erik in a good mood, and it seems he still feels indulgent despite his not so distant divorce.

Come to think of it, Charles has probably never seen Erik as happy as he was under the tent thingy on the day he married Magda. At the time, Charles had been too used to his oldest friends' mutual affection and too caught up in the awkward feeling of being the sole gentile in a sea of Jews, all of whom he had been certain hated his guts, to notice. Having seen the photos, though, Charles has to admit that it's Erik's expression that strikes him more than anything. Magda had been beautiful, practically glowing in every photo, but she always had that look of someone fresh off a photo shoot. Erik on the other hand- grouchy, jeans-loving, twenty-two-year-old Erik- had been beaming the whole time, his head turned in nearly every shot of him not beside his wife, as if he couldn't help but look for her.

The rough patch before their divorce had been hell. Erik had grown listless and lost weight he never had extra to lose in the forts place, and Magda's usual sweet temper had soured. Charles, who is admittedly more Erik's friend than hers but had never resented her or wanted anything other than his friends to make up, had found himself on her bad side. Even when they just ran into each other on the street, her mind had rippled with dislike, bordering frighteningly on hate.

Charles hasn't seen her in more than a year. He hadn't realized how much time he spent talking with her until she was no longer there to be called on a lazy Sunday for a marathon of shit telly or a three a.m. drunk dial. Now she and Erik have reconciled, maybe she and Charles can be friends again- or at least she might tell Charles what he'd done to inspire so much antipathy. He certainly hopes for the former.

"All right, Xavier," Erik announces loudly, dropping into his chair and scooting over. In one hand is a camera. In the other is a glass of bubbly, which he cruelly refuses to hand over. "You don't get this until I see proof of whether you got my hopes up for nothing or your sister is more ridiculous than I thought."

***

Raven and Irene flounce off for their honeymoon not long after a stunned Erik returns Darwin's camera. They stop by to give hugs to Charles and weak chastisements for Erik's late arrival. Then they're off, Irene and her cane threatening to trip Raven when her wife tries to turn their friendly dash into a race. Charles watches them go with only a distant pang if envy. He swallows it back easily, and Erik soon has him back where they were sitting but armed with slices of cake.

"I can't believe you did that," he's telling Charles now for the fifth time.  "The chicken dance."

"Everyone knows it," Charles reminds him. "Plus, it's fun, and we didn't have to fight about dance lessons. Really, I don't understand your confusion."

Rather than continue the light banter, Erik seizes on the bit Charles had not meant to let slip. "Why would you argue over dance lessons? Moira did all the other plans. I'm sure she could have found a style and a teacher you both- Oh."

The moment Erik puts the pieces together, Charles discovers his paper plate is endlessly fascinating. There are downsides to telepathy. Knowing all your friends' emotions is unpleasant.

"Your leg started acting up again, didn't it?"

"Legs," Charles corrects, staring morosely at the soupy remains of his ice cream cake. "Plural."

Erik lets out a low string of curses. "I didn't see your cane, so I thought you were doing better."

"Well, if nothing else, now we know you’re a closet optimist."

Another time, he might have gotten a laugh. This time, Erik only gets more agitated. "Don't." A muscle in his jaw twitches. "Don't joke about this. Are you still looking into that specialist?"

"I'd rather not do this right now," Charles hisses. Erik rallies himself to argue, so Charles leans in and cuts him off. "My sister just got married. Today is supposed to be a celebration. Let me have this, Erik. Please."

His friend's displeasure blares out of his mind, but Erik nods and lets the topic go.

The key to keeping Erik from sulking is distracting him with something inconsequential he can argue about. Charles knows just the thing: factually correct and irritating, the perfect combination. "I set them up, you know," he says loftily. "So really, you should be grateful for having such a good matchmaker as a friend."

True to form, Erik's mind twitches. "You didn't play matchmaker. They met because you pissed your sister off, and Irene happened to be there when Raven came to fight you."

"Minor details. I did something, and because of it, we now have a happy couple."

"Listen here, you," Erik warns, and all trace of that burst of concern from earlier evaporates.

***

Charles hates to think it, but with Raven gone, things get easier. That is, one thing gets easier: taking care of Mother. No one makes comments under their breath asking why he bothers or suggesting he should just find a place that takes care of people in her condition. He tries to remember not to hold it against her. Raven only knows Mrs. Xavier, the woman who swept the house with a half-drunk cocktail in one hand and the grace of a _prima donna_ in the other. She never met the woman who existed before the ten AM wine coolers and the ten thirty martinis. She never knew the woman who spent three years crying over her husband, then another two crying over their only child.

The woman Raven grew up with was distant and perpetually smelled of ethanol. Why would she see Sharon Xavier as anything more than the woman who simply a didn't refuse to adopt the girl her son found and wanted to keep?

It isn't any less difficult not to snap when she makes Charles feel guilty for not being able to disengage like she does. He remembers parties with Brian and Sharon, where his mother laughed until her mascara smudged and his father bounced Charles on his hip. There are days when he feels that woman struggling to the surface, and every once in a while she will make it.

 _Our boy_ , she thinks when she sees him. The pain in her chest is all love and adoration. _You've grown so handsome. Even if you did get Brian's nose, poor thing. But those are my eyes, aren't they? Just like when you were a baby, peering up at me._

She knows he is different. She has awareness enough to know that. He can't tell if she means to think those thoughts to herself or if she wants him to hear them. Maybe he ought not to let himself listen, but he can't help it. She remembers his father so clearly when she's lucid. Those memories are all he has now.

He tried to get her into rehab. She even went a few times. It just never stuck. Her guilt was so strong, her self-loathing so noxious, he stopped asking about getting help and started watering down the supply.

If he's honest, he knows why it never took. She loved his father dearly, and losing him broke something that refuses to be fixed.

Her liver is failing. Her kidneys are failing. She keeps drinking, though. Up in her room, where the children know not to go, the shadow of his mother can look out the window on the grounds her husband loved and try to remember why that makes her sad.

Charles could never leave her in someone else's care. She is far too delicate, too precious to be left in some stranger's hands. He is her son, and he will see her from this life into the next.

Raven doesn't understand that, but she usually keeps her frustration to herself.

Some days, though, she shouts at him that it isn't love that keeps him at her side. It's cowardice. So long as Sharon lives, Charles can pretend he's still a child. He can avoid relationships and justify never leaving New York.

_"What will you do when she dies? She has to go sometime, Charles! What are you going to do when she does? Drink yourself to death, too?"_

The accusations are cruel and unfounded. Charles has the school. The children. He has Erik and Magda and Raven, and now he has Irene. He isn't his mother.

_So put away the whisky._

He isn't an alcoholic. He can drink if he likes.

***

"I hate August."

With his face hidden beneath the giant hat he pilfered from his companion earlier, Charles is safe to let himself smile. "No, you don't."

"I do," Moira insists. "I absolutely hate it."

"Only the mosquitoes."

"Well, excuse me for not wanting to get West Nile." Despite her objections, Moira flops down onto the towel next to Charles'. He refrains from pointing out that West Nile hasn't been a problem in New York in years- and that if it were, her bikini would make for a poor shield against it, if only because he senses she might get annoyed and leave him here on his own.

Truth be told, he had thought she would say no to the outing. With the school due to reopen for classes in just a few weeks, the staff had decided on having a break from the boarders and go to the beach on their own, and while the housekeeper is more than able to handle the few summer charges, Moira has been sticking close to home the last year. Charles can hardly blame her for it- having a five-year relationship come to a messy end just months before the wedding would be hard on anyone. For Moira, who is fragile and serious under the emotionless façade of CIA spook turned wrangler of adolescents, it reverted the easy friendliness she had been growing into back to her natural reserve.

Hanging out in her swimming costume with Charles and the others is a step in a good direction, and as grateful as he is for the company on dry land- and he is deeply grateful of that- he is even more grateful to see his friend regaining her confidence. The innate order of her mind at rest is still somewhat skewed, but he can longer find signs of major distress. She will recover.

He knows this with absolute certainty, yet he finds himself unprepared when she disturbs their companionable silence to blurt, "Would you set me up?"

Jostled violently out of his passive sensing of his friends' happiness at splashing around in the ocean, Charles sits up quickly, hat falling off as he splutters, "Pardon?"

Moira blanches. "You know what? Never mind. I was being silly. Forget I said anything."

"Wait, love. Just- just wait half a second." Charles searches her face, looking for context her mind doesn't have. "Are you saying you're ready to get back out there."

"No? I mean, sort of?"

He raises his brows. "Moira."

"...Yes?"

"Do you want my help finding a rebound?"

"I-" She hesitates. "I don't mean to use you for your gift, but I thought since you know me like you do, you might do a better job finding someone reliable? I don't want to stay hung up on Levine, but it's been so long since I had to judge whether someone was into me... I don't know if I remember how to date."

Never, in all the time Charles has known her, has he heard Moira so at a loss. Boys who shoot plasma rays, girls with wings, dodging acidic saliva... She has handled every mutant and their loss of control with aplomb.

Taking her hands in his, Charles waits until she meets his eyes. When she does, he gives her his most reassuring smile. She isn't especially put at ease- a good sign. If she were, he would wonder if she isn't still too off-balance. A skeptical Moira is a healthy Moira.

"Moira, my dear," he intones, fighting to maintain his dignity in the face of her eye rolling, "it would be my honor to help you get back on the horse."

"Charles, my dear," she returns, smoothing her brogue into an outrageous imitation of his accent, "you are a cad and a pain in the ass, but sometimes I love you. Just a bit."

Unable to stop himself, he beams at her. "I love you, too, you rowdy Scott."

"Watch it, you English bastard."

"I am a proud American!"

"Even worse!"

She gives his shoulder a friendly punch. It is friendly; he knows that. Even so, the joint gives a painful twinge as if she had hauled off on him. Moira notices, of course. Before she can say anything, though, a shadow falls over them, the only warning they get before they get hit by a sudden rainfall.

Moira lets out an unhappy shout, while Charles, who got the brunt of the wetness, yelps in surprise. He forgets the pain as he swats at the air over his head. He gets a grunt for his efforts, the sound reaching him just a second after his hand makes contact with something cool and firm and wet; a moment later, a body hits the sand beside him.

"Hello, Erik," Moira says sourly. "Had a nice swim, did you?"

Erik gives them an unrepentant smile that shows all his teeth. "Very nice. You should try it."

The two eye each other for a moment, reminding Charles of the early days in their acquaintanceship. Erik has never taken to Moira for reasons he has never seen fit to share. Moira is too sharp not to notice his veiled dislike, and she has met his coolness with her own. Charles, who likes them both, spent nearly two years trying to get them to be friends before giving up. Since then, the two have come up with some kind of truce Charles can't begin to comprehend.

Every once in a while, the truce breaks and the school walks on eggshells until their teachers reconcile. Charles is beginning to worry this will be one of those times when Moira heaves a sigh.

Levering herself up, she shoots Erik an odd look before turning her attention to Charles. "I was thinking I'd just enjoy the sun here with you, but if you don't mind, I think I'll have a splash."

He waves her on but sends a hasty, _Sorry about that_ , as she goes. Moira merely replies with a flash of resignation.

"Must you antagonize her?" he asks, turning to face his sandy friend.

Erik pulls an unconvincing expression meant, Charles is sure, to be innocent. "I don't know what you mean."

"You're being a prick," Charles snaps. "I don't expect you to be best friends, but I do expect you to act like adults. For Christ's sake, Erik." Sensing the objection, he amends, "For _fuck's_ sake, Erik. I know you believe in _that_."

One thing Erik can be relied on to do is know when he is pressing buttons. He enjoys being infuriating. It makes people sloppy and, critically, more honest. Usually Charles' anger only encourages him, but for once, after searching Charles' face, he relents.

"Was it really so serious you have to yell at your best friend?"

"I don't know that it's any of your business." Not pacified by his friend’s flippant attitude, Charles gives him a severe look. "Actually, I do, and it isn't."

Expression pinching, Erik turns onto his back and makes himself comfortable in the sand. He looks like he's only in a huff, but his mind is churning. Charles tries to push his awareness of it away. He's annoyed with Erik. Getting caught up in the intricate way his friend's mind picks apart his frustration and hunts for a solution will only make that harder.

Charles has moved onto watching Moira give Angel a ride on her shoulders when he catches a change in Erik's thoughts.

A moment later, something sandy brushes his wrist.

"I'm sorry."

Charles is not moved by Erik's apologies. No matter how rare they are. No matter whether they ring with honesty. "Thank you" he tells the ocean, "but I'm not the one you should be apologizing to."

"Do I have to tell her now?"

"Tell her whenever- or don't. I'm not your mother. It's not my job to make you behave. Though I suspect if she knew how you treat Moira, your mother would chew you out. Or send your father."

Erik hums. "The latter, if I had to pick."

Charles stutters. This is the closest to acknowledgement Erik has ever made of having fault in the feud. "Then why?" he presses, doing his best to keep his voice free of accusation.

"I don't know," Erik admits softly. Shuffling onto his side, he gives Charles a broken look. "You caught that, didn't you?"

"The lie? Yes."

"You were much easier to fool when you were a child. I miss those days."

"I don't. You were a right bastard," Charles elaborates at the confused squint Erik throws at him. "I never knew if you were going to be nice to me or send me off on a wild goose chase. It took me a long time to realize you weren't upset that I couldn't find a snipe but because you wanted me to sod off."

"Magda told you, didn't she?" Erik guesses.

Charles nods. "I was mortified. I think I might have cried. She invited me to one of those girls-only tea parties she was having the next day, though, which made up for it. All her friends fussed over me and made me promise not to be upset because you're a jerk." Looking back, that was one of the happiest afternoons of Charles' life. All those pretty girls focusing on him, all of them being sweet and offering him hugs and petting his hair and more cookies, Charles? It was heaven.

"That was the week she spent going to your house and ignoring me, wasn't it? All the girls in our class hated me."

"No, that was something else."

Shrugging, Erik accepts the correction without challenge. His ease with accepting blame makes Charles' heart ache. He really wasn't that bad. Charles' adoration had not been unfounded: Erik was one of the few older kids who was nice to the younger ones. After the mess with the snipe hunt, he would just tell Charles when he wanted to be alone. Then there was how kind he was when Charles' mutation manifested. More than anyone, Erik had visited Charles in the hospital and brought him tons of food baked by his mother. When he was finally released, it was Mr. Lehnsherr and Erik who picked Charles and his mother up at the hospital and drove them home when Kurt didn't show.

"I wish you wouldn't do that," Charles sighs. Talking about their childhood always puts Erik in mind of the things that happened when Charles too little to help with. Glancing at the colorful ink curling up the inside of Erik's forearm, he risks laying a hand on one sandy shoulder. When it doesn't get shaken off, he uses it to tug Erik closer. "You made mistakes," he says firmly, "but you're better than them. I have never regretted our friendship."

_Not even when you're an arse to Moira._

Huffing a weak laugh, Erik leans harder into him until he's resting his head on Charles' shoulder. "I'll never understand why you like me so much."

This would be a good time to crack a joke. Tell him Charles doesn't know why either and let Erik shake off the shroud of intimacy they have unwittingly wound around themselves. A tussle would do them some good. It's been too long since Erik grumbled at him about putting sand down a man's pants being cheating.

Instead, Charles slides his arm around Erik's shoulders and rests his forehead on the crown of Erik's head. Erik allows the embrace, his mind slowly softening into a haze of contentment as Charles strokes his thumb over the curve of his bicep. He falls asleep like that, and Charles only spares a moment to wish he had a camera.

 _I know you,_ he tells Erik as the others shout indistinctly to each other with glee, too quiet to penetrate the wall of sleep around his mind. _I have seen everything you are, and I know you are a good man._

_The real question is why you like me._

Lulled by Erik's steady breathing and the warmth of the sun, Charles soon finds himself nodding off as well. With no children to watch over, he lets himself tumble under to blurry dreams of heat and contentment.

***

When he wakes, the sun is setting, and Moira is telling him it's time to go. Erik must have moved in his sleep, because they aren't so much leaning on each other now as Charles is cradling Erik's head to his chest.

Moira wisely heads off to join the others, leaving Charles to nudge Erik awake.

"I wasn't asleep," comes the slurred protest.

"Could have fooled me." Charles chuckles. "Time to go, sleepy head. You better go wash the sand off before you track it through the van."

Groaning, Erik does as he's bid. It takes him an unsteady moment to get to his feet, but once he's up, he steadies. "I'll be back," he promises, right before he dashes to the water.

Charles watches him go with a pang of envy. He's always wished he could get into shape like Erik, but between being a lazy adolescent, a full-time academic at university, and now being ill, he's never been able to do it. He's no slouch now, if out of necessity, but there's something about men the sort of fit Erik maintains that he can't match. Just watching him come jogging back over is appealing, his legs bunching and his flat belly pulling tighter.

"Here," he calls when his friend gets close enough. Pulling an extra towel out of the bag, he hands it to an amused looking Erik. "This one isn't covered in sand, so we won't have to clean up as much after we get back."

"Good plan."

The others honk for them to hurry up, so Charles hurries to gather up the clothes and shoes left behind as Erik takes down the umbrella and stuffs the towel into the big beach bag. He insists on carrying it once Charles has finished loading it up, and as much as he wants to protest, lying on his ass all day has left Charles unbelievably tired. Relinquishing control, he allows Erik to take it from him.

As they make their way back, Charles casts his mind ahead to the next year of mutants enrolled at Graymalkin. It's going to be a long, difficult ten months. Mutants being visible has both helped and hurt them; managing the myriad quirks of all their students is going to be extra rough with that damn Kelly Act back up for debate in the House.

Then there are the two new teachers Charles had to hire. Emma Frost, a fellow telepath, whose interview left him with the impression of a woman as capable and intelligent as she is cold- it was Raven's praise of her no-nonsense way of handling an upset student afterwards that had tipped his opinion towards the favorable- and Sebastian Shaw, a man with a gift for energy conversion that is as unique to him as Erik's electromagnetism on top of a way with silver tongue that had just kept to the side of propriety, will both be proving their mettle this year. Charles can only hope he chose well- as much as hiring is a committee decision, they look to Charles and his gift for confirmation. Both came highly recommended from institutions Charles has vetted personally and trusts. He has gotten teachers from both in past and was impressed by them.

Still, he can't help but worry. His telepathy is by law dampened during the interview process. It can't be shut down completely without knocking him unconscious, but what little he has is too weak to look as deeply as he would like. These people will be shaping the most delicate of minds. His children are more vulnerable than most, and if anything were to happen to them...

"Relax."

This time Erik is the one to put his arm around Charles. The half-embrace is more comforting than Charles would care to admit, even if it does make navigating the car park difficult."

"Sometimes I wonder if you aren't the telepath," he says, wrapping his arm deliberately around Erik's middle. "You've an uncanny ability to read people, my friend."

Erik shrugs. "Or you're projecting."

"I haven't projected since I was fourteen."

"You project when you drink, old friend. And you were hitting the bottle last month."

"...You may be right about that."

"I'm always right. You weren't projecting just now, but I do know you. You're worried about the school."

"I'm always worried about the school."

"As well you should be. But giving yourself a heart attack won't help keep the children safe." He quirks a smile. "Dashing though I'm sure you'd look in a hospital gown."

"Yes, I've often been told I look most handsome with my arse in the air," Charles quips. Erik's eyes fly open wide, which is strange, but when Charles thinks back, he can't figure out why- Oh. "That wasn't what I meant, but it's equally true."

Erik is still sniggering when they reach the van.

"Go on," he says, sobering as he nudges Charles toward the front passenger seat.

"Nonsense. You drove here. I can drive back-"

A chorus of no's, including one "fucking Christ, no," cuts him off.

"I'm not dying because you fell asleep at the wheel," Moira complains. "No whining. You're dead on your fucking feet."

She has a point, and Charles can never get enough naps these days anyway.

"Fine. But don't get used to it," he warns.

A second chorus, this time of "yes, Charles," meets him. They return to their precious discussions as Erik makes his way to the driver's side, leaving Charles without an audience to convince as he heaves himself into his seat.

He doesn't remember anything that happens after his ass hits the cushion and his head hits the window. Not Erik buckling him in or Irene shrugging off her sweatshirt to make him a pillow or Raven popping the cap on a permanent marker.

Not the stop at McDonald's which saw Angel sneak back to get the kids happy meals, unaware Alex had done the same until they were back on the road. Not Erik shoving a smoothie into his hands and making him drink it. Not Moira and Sean being the first ones back, getting caught up in the group's good mood and the adrenalin of racing each other to the van, and winding up in a lip lock until Alex came charging in with his lump of Happy Meals poorly disguised under his jacket.

Not the children coming out to greet them, all of them first year boarders still nervous about being left behind, and finding themselves holding the sort of greasy treats they aren't normally allowed at school. Not them being torn between joy at their double helpings of fries and concern at seeing their headmaster conked out in their physics teacher's arms.

Not Erik scolding him as he carried Charles up the stairs and tucking him in. Not even Erik making him drink a glass of water or the wash of _concern_ and _affection_ and _pleasebeallright_ that Charles' autopilot mind took to mean _hug me_ and directed to him kiss Erik's rough cheek. Not the agonized sound that scraped out his friend's throat as he firmly pushed Charles back into bed.

When he wakes up in the middle of the night with a mysteriously full bladder and only his boxer shorts, his stiff, barefoot stumble across the carpet is barren of all thought save gratitude that he has his own bathroom.

***

The two new teachers handle their assignments with the same aplomb as their predecessors.

Emma Frost is respected by the children, if not endeared to them; she has a knack for finding the lead troublemaker, cutting him off before he can encourage dissent, and using the time she saved to prop up the less certain children. Her style is more aggressive than Charles care for, but he can't dispute her success. At their weekly meetings, she expresses just the right amount of self-doubt. As a fellow telepath, he has to admit she weaves a convincing thread of her power around him; if he were less powerful, he might even fall for it.

Sebastian Shaw is just the opposite. He is an open man, egalitarian and charismatic. He easily stirs the children's interest, getting them excited about their history lessons. Getting them invested in civilizations they might otherwise never have cared about one way or the other. His meetings with Charles are equally exhilarating. The man is a scintillating conversationalist who is as open with his emotions as he is with his passion.

When Charles mentions his impressions to Erik, he isn't surprised that his friend takes the opposite view.

"Emma is honest," Erik growls as he scours the board for a place to set his knight. "She is not an open woman by nature, and she does not pander to you by pretending to be one." Clearly regretting his decision to pick the piece up, he sacrifices it to Charles' trap. "Shaw, on the other hand, is a yes man. He knows what you like, and he'll regurgitate it up for you until he gets what he wants. Then you'll see his true colors."

Rolling his eyes, Charles reminds him, "I am a telepath, old friend. I hardly think Shaw could hide some deep secret from me."

Erik grits out a laugh. "You'd be surprised."

Concerned- the thoughts he's sensing from his friend are shaky with rage- Charles makes to ask what Erik is upset about, only to find himself pushed out none too gently.

"I'm not feeling well," Erik says, abruptly getting to his feet. "We'll continue this another time?"

He doesn't want for an answer, just turns on his heels and marches out.

Charles watches him go, too confused to object.

***

Finding Moira a suitable partner has to take a back seat to getting the school ready for the start of the new term, but his task is never far from his mind. When he checks the staff rosters, he mentally eliminates coworkers from the pool. When he speaks to families on the phone, calming their fears or firmly reminding them their mutant children need extra care to help them blossom in good, healthy adults, not to force them to become "normal," he rules out single relatives of students and anyone with extreme views in either direction.

Moira is used to dealing with high strung people, but unlike Charles, who ultimately enjoys the challenge, she finds no pleasure in it. She has a fondness for ridiculous movies- her proud collection of _Tremors_ DVDs is proof of that- and unapologetically simple pleasures. Chocolates, tear-jerkers, beer and pizza. Cats.

She deserves someone who will be careful with her. Someone intelligent, with a healthy ego, who would not need to quash her independence.

It is a real conundrum.

Charles is mulling it over one evening late in October, a bottle of whiskey at hand, when he feels the approach of a familiar mind wondering where he is.

 _I'm in here,_ he sends, adding the sense of which room he's in. _Do come in._

A moment later, Erik steals into the study. "These children," he sighs as he drops onto the unoccupied cushion beside Charles. "They're animals. Where did you find them?"

"You love them all." Charles fights a grin at the scowl Erik forces but loses the desire quickly. "A good thing, too. I didn't want to tell the others, but I found more than usual in foster care this year."

"Strays?" Erik questions, using their old code for abandoned mutant children. "You think they're getting more frequent?"

"That seems to be the case."

"Fuck."

 _My thoughts exactly._ "You won't like this much better, but I think we should consider bringing in the government. Moira has some contacts she thinks could help us-"

"Of course she does."

Charles' thoughts, which had been moving forward through his selection of potential advocates, come to a halt. He knows that tone. As hypernaturally smooth as Erik's face is, Charles has known him far too long to miss the edge to the words.

"What's the problem now?"

Erik shrugs. "No problem."

"Erik, I have known you since before your powers manifested," Charles says. "That was not your 'no problems' voice. That was your 'big problem' voice. So I'll ask again: what is going on?"

"Nothing," Erik says, his slow annunciation turning the word into two.

He's clearly lying, but Charles doesn't have it in him to press further. Erik is confusing at the best of times. Having to keep the emotions of a bunch of worried teens just calm enough to prevent a fear-fueled riot is exhausting. Charles can't do both at once. A lesson in humility he never should have needed, but need it he must have, considering he thought nothing of explaining why Erik was getting Charles in the divorce while keeping five new additions to the school relaxed, one of whom was on the edge of a PTSD flashback.

"As you say," he sighs. "Could we at least compare notes on the new students? I think one or two might need more serious assistance- the boy with the ink in particular may have a hearing impairment, and I suspect it was not a natural one."

Erik's expression grows dark, but he agrees readily, quickly casting off the burst ill-temper earlier in favor of using the students to distract Charles and get away with putting his feet on the table.

***

Grocery days are never Charles' favorites. Either he has to spend an hour fighting off all manner of greedy hands while bending and stretching through an impromptu aerobics routine, or he has to spend three driving into town, hinting through the endless aisles for food that will satisfy a bunch of picky teenagers. And, worse, picky adults.

He gets to the supermarket without incident and only has to fight a soccer mom once over a particular brand of cereal so ghastly Charles winces every time he sees one of his children munching on it. By the end, his legs are tingling and making noise about giving out.

He nearly makes it to the van. Charles is at most five steps away when his left leg gives out, and he hits the ground.

A point of pride for him is he doesn't cry out when his face gets forcefully acquainted with the hot hard top. Charles' fall is as swift ad it is silent, and he is sitting upright when someone calls, "Are you all right?"

Twisting around, he catches sight of a tall, swarthy man jogging over.

"That was quite a fall," the stranger tells him, as if Charles hadn't noticed. He offers a friendly hand to help Charles up and does it with such a quiet air of amusement- his mind finds the sight of Charles going arse over teakettle deeply amusing now he knows Charles is in one piece- that Charles doesn't feel any of his usual prickliness. It's just one man helping another up. No pity. No infantilizing thoughts of whether Charles can be trusted to take care of himself or not.

Accepting the hand, Charles returns the perfect smile with a wry one of his own. "Thanks for the assist, mate. Don't know what happened."

The man accepts the explanation but gets a pensive look on his face when he takes in Charles' skinned palms. "You shouldn't drive with your hands like this."

Charles has a "thanks but no thanks" ready to go, but then the man says his name is Janos, he owns the small shop down the street, and if Charles wants, Janos will let him try some of the natural antibiotic remedies he sells- provided Charles will pass the word along about the shop. Charles agrees on the condition that they get his groceries into the van first.

Half an hour later, Charles is on the road with slightly numb palms, the lightest bandages he's ever seen covering the cuts, and the beginnings of a plan.

***

Moira is waiting when he gets back.

"What happened to the car?" is the first thing out of her mouth.

A moment later, "What happened to you?" is the second.

"Shopping cart, black top," Charles singsongs in reply, turning his back to her and the porch she's glaring at him from in favor of picking up bags. "I'm fine, but I'd appreciate it if you'd hold off telling Erik about the other thing."

"Hold off telling Erik about what other thing?"

 _Damn._ "Nothing." Charles slides the last of the cloth bags onto his arms. Steeling himself, he turns to face the twin scowls waiting to scold him in his own home. "I thought you were taking the children for a nature hike today."

"Howlett lumbered into poison ivy. They didn't want to risk the same fate." For all his face says disdain, Erik's mind is warm with his regard for the students' wisdom.

Moira and Erik show their own wisdom by letting Charles teeter his bags to the kitchen without interfering. They watch him too carefully, but Charles is willing to overlook it. He's feeling good. Janos proved stimulating company, and his products must be part magic because Charles can hardly feel the scrapes, and the ones he can feel are hardly swollen. He'll make a lovely addition to the school. Charles has the perfect way to kill that bird and its fat, feathery neighbor with the same stone.

Then, just as he's setting the bags on the table, he hears it.

"Charles! What did you do to the car?"

_Shite._

***

After dinner cooked by a less than happy Erik ("Yes, I can fix the dent, but that isn't the point. If you would just be more- No, never mind. Just go away, Charles. I'll see you at dinner"), Charles manages to pry Moira from (the housekeeper)'s hands.

He leads her to the study, snags her a bottle from the mini fridge, and sits her down. "You just spent the afternoon running interference with Erik," he says, waving off her objections. "Sit, drink, and have my thanks."

She takes the offered bottle without further delay, merely holds out her hand for the bottle opener.

"This," she sighs once she's made it through, "is almost worth dealing with him."

"I have more if that will get me back on your good side. There may even be one of yesterday's brownies..."

"Now, Charles."

Grinning to himself- he knows her too well- Charles grabs another beer and the treat he sneaked away under the papers on his desk. Moira accepts the bribes happily and is cheerfully munching away when someone knocks on the door.

"Come in, Sean," Charles calls.

Across from him, Moira tenses up but says nothing. Her mind, by design or not, goes blank, as one of the school's favored alumni peeks in.

As soon as he sees Moira, Sean pinks and ducks his head. "I just wanted to tell you I'm heading back to the City," he mumbles at the floor. "Thanks for letting me hang out here, Prof."

"You will always have a place with us," Charles sighs. Even he is getting a little tired of the line. "And you're old enough to call me by my first name now."

"I’m pretty sure Erik would skin me for the disrespect."

"He wouldn't _skin_ you. I don't know where you all get these ideas. Honestly. Skinning takes too much time and makes a dreadful mess. He's far more likely to throw you off the roof."

Remembering Erik's early form of tutelage makes Sean go white even as Charles laughs and Moira, who witnessed the incident from the ground, groans.

"Yeah, well, I'd keep my eyes peeled just in case," Sean advises. "I'm heading off now- I've got an early appointment downstate with an exec tomorrow, and I don't want to miss it. See you around the holidays, Professor." Pinking, he adds a hasty, "Bye, Moira," before making his retreat.

Intrigued- Sean and Moira have been close for a long time, and usually he gets at least one noogie from her in farewell- Charles turns his attention to his friend. Moira's cheeks are pink, and she's staring at her empty bottle too hard.

 _Oh, dear_. "How long has this been going on, then?"

"It isn't."

"Moira, I'm not blind-"

The table shakes as she slams her empty down. For the first time since the beach, Moira's guard slips, her voice tight as she says, "There's nothing going on. All right?"

 _All right,_ he soothes, pushing his trust in her. _I'm sorry._ Though she nods and settles back in her chair, he gets the sense she is still feeling wrong-footed. "If there were, Sean isn't a child anymore. He isn't even a student. He's twenty-three. You're only six years older. There would be paperwork, I'm sure, but there’s always paperwork. If you're worried I would object-"

"Strangely, your opinion is not my biggest concern here, Charles." She says it flatly, but her lips are quirked. "But thank you anyway, and feel free to toss me another beer."

He does, and despite the bottle going wide, she catches it.

***

Moira is snoring peacefully when Charles leaves her. She won't thank him for the crick in her neck, but she was not all that happy about getting dropped last time he tried carrying her either.

Back in the kitchen, he sets about getting ready to do the dishes. Erik tends to go for more complicated dishes when he's in a mood, but Charles lucked out this time. The prep dishes are mostly cutting boards and knives, nothing too fancy or breakable. He does need gloves when it comes time to get soapy, though, and whoever used them last didn't put them away. As he isn't about to risk it with his hands so scraped up, Charles is forced to go hunting.

He is rummaging around below the sink, in the middle of celebrating his find- a single rubber glove large enough for an adult hand- when someone behind him coughs. Startled, he bangs his head on the top of the cabinet. The thump echoes around him as he leans back, eyes narrowed against the bright kitchen lights.

Erik raises his brows but stays where he is slouched in the doorway.

"You did that on purpose," Charles accuses, pressing a hand to his head to stop the ringing. It doesn't work.

Erik shakes his head. "You're worse than the children sometimes, you know that?"

He says it with affection, but Charles finds himself clenching his fists. "The headmaster is so clumsy!" is a common joke around the school. He doesn't blame the children for laughing when he stumbles or knocks into things. They don't know any better, and adults generally don't make messes as frequently as Charles does. If anything, it's endeared him to a few of the children with physical mutations who otherwise would not have taken to him. Seeing Charles' cock ups puts them at ease with their frustrations with their own bodies.

It stings, especially when some of them feel the need to go that little bit further into making a spectacle of him, but he can handle it.

Coming from Erik, who is not a child, who knows how hard Charles has to work just to keep up a semblance of normalcy...

Rocking to his feet, Charles lets the rush of dizziness sweep away his bitterness. He feels himself away, but he was careful and doesn't lose his balance.

"I don't suppose you know where the other one of these is?" he asks, closing his eyes as the world slowly resets up and down.

Despite that, he can feel Erik's frown. "What?"

"Howlett ripped the last of them yesterday," Erik explains, oddly tentative. Charles hates when Erik gets tentative. He only ever does it when they're about to talk about something Charles doesn't want to talk about. "That's why you went shopping today instead of next week, remember?"

Now that he thinks about it, yes, Charles does. "Then who unpacked them? Because they aren't here, and I already checked the closet and the pantry."

"You didn't get any."

The spinning has eased enough for Charles to open his eyes. When he does, Erik is watching him with the furrow between his brows that always means trouble. "Don't be ridiculous," Charles laughs. "I'm sure I did."

"Not according to the receipt, you didn't."

Well, damn. "Maybe they didn't get on the list."

Erik pulls a yellow slip of folded paper out of his pocket and holds it out.

Accepting it and the inevitable, Charles looks over the list. There, right at the top, is _rubber gloves_. In his handwriting. "Oops."

"Is that all you have to say?" Erik asks. "'Oops.'"

"What do you want me to say, Erik? I forgot about them. I'll just be careful tonight, then go out and buy a box tomorrow."

Rather than let himself be placated, Erik's jaw twitches. "Just because you want to pretend you're fine doesn't mean I have to."

If Erik wants a fight, he can have it. "What's that supposed to mean?" Charles snaps, drawing himself up. "If you have a complaint, tell me outright."

Erik's expression turns grim. "As you wish. I think you're getting worse. Not only that, but I think you're so concerned about looking like you aren't, you're putting the children at risk."

"Excuse me?" Charles' voice is rising, but he can't remember how to make it stop. "It was one thing!"

Erik takes a step closer, as if he could intimidate Charles. His voice is no quieter than Charles' when he shots, "This time!" He points at Charles' hands. "What about those? You expect me to believe you just fell over like one of the children? You're a grown man, Charles!"

"You think I don't know that?" Charles shouts right back. All the anger he's been nursing, all the indignity and wisecracking he's endured comes rushing to the surface, and without meaning to, he's the one getting in Erik's face. "I'm not a child anymore, Erik! Like it or not, I'm old enough to know my own damn body. For you to suggest I would ever put the children at risk- Me! I'm not you, Erik. I don't need to make people hurt because I'm in pain and too weak to ask for help. When I need it, I will ask. Until then, kindly shut your fucking yap, and stay the hell out of things you can't possibly comprehend!"

Erik blanches. "What did you just say?"

"I thought I was the one who wasn't listening? I don't need you, of all people, to tell me how to take care of myself, Erik. If I need advice on scaring my parents and breaking things, I'll be sure to consult you. Until then, fuck off!"

Preparing himself for Erik's comeback, Charles almost misses the tiny voice that peeps, "Professor?"

Glancing down, he finds one of the littlest children standing at the edge of the room in her pyjamas and looking ready to cry.

"We're done," he hisses at Erik. Turning his attention to the child, he pulls his gift around himself, covering over whatever mess he currently resembles and plastering on something more reassuring. "Had trouble sleeping, did you?" he asks, and when she nods, he holds out his hand for her to take.

She closes tiny fingers around his hand, and for a moment the world starts to spin again. How could anyone not want to protect someone so small and fragile? What sort of person decides they are relieved of their human obligations to just because their child's skin changes color? "I think we can find something to help with that."

***

Charles doesn't think of Erik again that night. He tucks the girl in, promises she's safe and that he and Professor Lehnsherr were just blowing off steam, reads her the fluffy story she loves so much five times, and finally extracts himself once she falls asleep, a tendril of his gift smoothing over her mind and ensuring her dreams don't include Charles and Erik's shouting match.

When he gets back to the kitchen, the dishes have been done. He knows better than to take it as a sign of remorse or peace. Erik simply dislikes messes, and the thought of Charles' hands opening up and getting blood on the dishes would have been enough to make Erik intervene.

Paperwork awaits, so Charles directs himself to his office, where the only fighting is academic.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If Charles' spelling and/or speech seems inconsistent, it's on purpose. With his mother and Oxford on one side and being an American teacher of small American children on the other, with his telepathy overlaying it all, I figure he's bound to slur the two together.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end notes for content warnings.

_There has been fear in my life._

Over the following weeks, Charles and Erik avoid each other whenever possible and ignore each other when not. Not tends to mean mealtime, which sees the frostiness between them covered by the children's energetic fighting. The fact that Erik no longer leaves the animal-less side of the table to make conversation with the rest of them gets a few raised brows but otherwise passes without comment. Charles' habits are not nearly so far above speculation. His trip to the store just for gloves brings Raven to his office, and they, too, get into it over something trivial.

The problem with cohabiting with family and friends, Charles reflects after his sister storms out, is there is no space to cool down. Hearing Erik's thoughts shouted at him once more, this time in Raven voice, only forced him to admit what he has long tried to ignore.

The school is not enough. He needs friends outside these walls. People who won't already know about Ilyana's nightmares or Toad's insecurities. People who only know him as he is now, who will treat Charles like the man he is now, not compare him to the one he used to be.

The roads get messy quickly in the fall, but Charles enjoys the challenge. In the past he would have brought someone with him when he had to navigate ice and puddles. Now he relies on himself. He was a good driver before everything kicked off. He is a good driver still.

You don't recover if you always lean on your crutch, after all. Which is why he stops bringing his cane everywhere.

Going alone also gives him the chance to talk to Janos without interruption. It's nice to speak to a European who can commiserate with Charles over all the open space in America. Moira has affection for her mother country, but she made her life here and isn't the sort to get nostalgic, and Erik has nothing but wariness of the continent- his time in England left hardly any better impression, and while Charles can understand it, England was his home for years.

He partied in Ibiza and went on those awful eighteen to thirty ships; he summered in France and survived Italian traffic. He knows good wine from the cooking stuff New York tries to pass as fine. (If anyone tries to sell him on wine from Long Island one more time, he might cry.)

Janos not only understands but shares Charles' love of footie. They have a few spontaneous pickup games, all of which Charles loses horribly but enjoys every second of. He even allows the ribbing about Janos understanding England's weak performance in past Cups. His clumsiness and slowness are just attributes of the English, there to be mocked as much as Charles' fondness for cardigans.

The closest to the camaraderie he gets with Janos comes from Shaw. The time Charles used to spend placating Erik is open to anyone now, and the new history teacher has been unapologetic in seeking Charles out. Shaw is no Erik when it comes to chess, but he is a strong player and makes Charles work for his wins. Any pangs of guilt he might experience when putting the set away are irrational. He is allowed to play chess. So what if he learned it from his father just as Erik did?

Who cares that their friendship was cemented by Charles asking Erik to come over and play, expecting the older boy not to show, only for Erik to appear with a plate of pasties and an aggressive explanation that Mrs. Lehnsherr had heard Charles likes scones, so here, take them, whoa, do they really get to play on such a nice set?

Charles never said he would only ever play with Erik. He has done nothing to merit guilt, and if the feeling persists, he will simply drown it in Sebastian's expensive cologne and the divine wine Janos put him onto.

That said, Erik's words of caution are not forgotten, merely taken with the salt they merit. If someone asked him now, Erik would probably call Charles reckless and childish. Yet Charles is finally caught up with the school's paperwork, his lesson plans are done up to a month ahead, and the students have been coming to him after class with less reluctance than ever.

Perhaps they are picking up on his mood. Charles hasn't felt his good about himself in years.

"You are looking pleased," Janos observes one afternoon. His shop has been busier of late, no doubt due in part to the fantastic smell of the treats he has been selling, but they have hit a lull.

"The December party is coming up," Charles tells him, not wanting to spoil the comfortable atmosphere with the truth, "and not only have I gotten all my shopping done, I think I've found the perfect gifts."

Janos tilts his head, brow furrowing. "Not Christmas party?"

"We're not Vulpine and Co," Charles explains drily. "A number of the children are uncomfortable with it, for myriad reasons. My- One of the teachers is Jewish. He wasn't thrilled about being co-opted into Christmas, so we figured it would be best if we just celebrated the last month of the year."

Charles glosses over the extent of Erik's issues with Christmas, reluctant to share how important it was to him in the school’s early days to remove any source of discomfort for Erik. The idea of a December party came about specifically because Erik was a teacher. With the school gaining wider recognition and attracting interest from all over, Charles can only be glad they already got used to having big secular celebrations together. Most of the students with devout families go home to celebrate with them, but a few do remain. For them, Erik made it his business to find them everything they would need and scare up any help they might need.

Differing religions is far from the only stumbling block with this particular holiday, but it is the easiest to cite.

Stomach clenching, Charles quickly pushes the conversation forward. "The adults have our own New Year's party, though, which is great fun. No, really! I see that look. We have a standing agreement with a hotel in White Plains, and we all go down, get rat arsed, and have a bloody good time." Sensing Janos' skepticism, he leans in and confides, "Last year, a couple us of drank so much, they had to fetch the police to get us off the roof. They didn't quite manage it with the megaphone, but they did send a few officers up to dance us back inside. I got a dreadful cold afterwards, but it was absolutely worth it. I think."

Comprehension dawns bright and amused on Janos' face. "You were, ah, less than dressed?"

Charles smirks. "Naked as a jaybird."

They share a laugh that ends with Janos shaking his head and wondering aloud what it is about that bird in particular that makes it more naked than the others. Charles can only shrug, but, in a stroke nod genius, suggests Janos come by and find out for himself.

"No, no, it's a staff party. I couldn't!"

Charles waves him off. "No, it's an adult party. People usually brings dates- and friends," he adds quickly. "The whole point is getting to cut loose."

"If you're sure..."

"Absolutely! I'll let you know once we've figured out what time were starting it this year."

When he leaves, Charles gives Janos a friendly wave, which the man returns with an overdramatic blown kiss. Charles laughs him off but lets the gesture warm him all the way back to the school.

There, the feeling dissipates the moment he sneaks around the back and is confronted with the sight of Erik sitting slumped on the back steps.

Habit is a dirty fighter. It rabbit punches the sense out of Charles and has him rushing to Erik's side. He hits the stair hard enough to send a wave of pain up his knee and through his teeth, but the light hit Erik's face just right to catch on the wet sheen around his eyes.

"Erik? What's wrong, my friend?"

Unable to help it, Charles reaches for Erik with his telepathy. For once, his friend's mind grasps Charles' and holds it fast.

 _The children are fine_ , it promises. _Everyone is safe inside._

"And outside?"

Erik shakes his head. "I'm fine," he says, his voice rough with unshed tears. "It's nothing."

Not taken in by that, Charles sits himself down on the step next to Erik.

"You do realize the last time you told me that, you were walking around with a broken foot."

"I didn't know it was broken," Erik protests.

"Only because you shut your eyes whenever when you took your sock off so you technically never saw how swollen and blue it was," Charles reminds him.

Coughing a laugh, Erik nods. "You have to admit it was an ingenious solution."

"It was no such thing." Charles gives into the impulse and nudges Erik with his shoulder. "I don't even remember why you wouldn't just go to the ER."

"You were sick, and I didn't want to worry the children."

That sounds right. Charles hadn't even known something was up until Angel came to him and asked if Charles would please get the stick out of Erik's ass. Charles had had to corner him in the pantry and threaten to blow his nose on all Erik's shirts just to get him to admit he was in pain. He wouldn't say how he hurt his foot or why he was walking around on it. Charles was too sick to go with him, but Moira had. He had been unspeakably relieved when they both came back in one piece.

Come to think of it, Erik got hurt right around the time of the new year's party...

"You really won't tell me?"

Erik shrugs. "Like I said, it's nothing. Just... the time of year."

He doesn't mean the holidays. Charles has never been made privy to what Erik endured when he got mixed up with that mutant gang, but he can put the few pieces he has found together. The cold season brought bloodshed. The first time Erik came to his house to avoid going home, it was January, and he was a mess of blood and bruises.

Sharon had taken one look at Charles' attempts at patching him up and made the executive decision to call the Lehnsherrs. Erik had been less than thrilled, but Charles' mother's refusal to turn a blind eye had garnered her thanks from Erik's family. Her improvements on Charles' handiwork helped as well. Erik looked significantly less like Frankenstein's Monster, Sponsored by Band-Aid when she finished.

Charles scoots a little closer, and Erik only hesitates a moment before putting his arm around Charles' shoulders. He's warm despite the cold, his light jacket only just adding a layer of softness over the firm planes of Erik's torso.

"Are we friends again?"

Charles sighs. "We're always friends, Erik. That's the problem."

"Yeah." Erik squeezes him harder. "Yeah, it is."

***

Cold weather is the worst. It seeps into Charles' bones and makes his joints creak, and the pain that never truly goes away burrows deeper into his flesh. Sleep becomes a luxury bought by spirits. His temper suffers for it, but he keeps the worst out of sight.

The house is less drafty now, but Charles' room still feels like a refrigerator when he drags himself to bed at night. Raven suggested he get the cane out again on her last visit, and as much as he hates to admit it, she has a point. He has to have a few close calls with his face and the floor before he actually roots it out of his closet, but by the second week in December, the cane is a regular fixture at his side.

His one true respite is his mother. Her room, like children's, is always warm, and besides Charles, only her caregiver makes a point of coming to see her. She never remarks on his stiff gait and only once commented on the cane.

"Don't you look dashing!" she had gushed, a look of manic pride in her eyes as she sat up to get a better look at him. She had even smiled at him. It had been one of her rarer, not-quite-lucid days, the wine in her glass barely touched but her mind a disjointed swirl nevertheless as she gestured him forward. "Come along, Charles. Sit right here and let your mother see how handsome her son has grown."

Those moments are precious few. As the sickness spreads, it takes more and more of Sharon for its own, and Charles is left to wipe away the smudges of lipstick where trembling hands smeared it beyond her lips, to straighten her off-kilter dresses, to bear her confounded anger. All the while the ghost of his mother watches him with glistening eyes as he tidies her up.

"I do love you," she often tells him. The words are distracted, as if she knows they are true but can't recall what the frame of reference is.

This time, when Charles ascends the stairs to her room, she is sitting on the daybed below the windowsill. She has a book in her hands, but he doesn't recognize the slim, unmarked cover.

"Hello, Mum," he calls gently as he slips through the doorway. She startles easily these days. Paranoia and delusions wrack her, the poison hitting her brain as squarely as it hits her liver. "How are you today?"

She doesn't reply, merely tips her head and watches him approach.

Charles is used to this. Unperturbed, he pushes forward. "I'm doing all right. The children are a handful, but they're settling into their studies well. A few of the older ones are even looking into universities now. I think I can help grandfather one into Harvard if she decides she wants to go."

He limps over to the chair beside the bed and drops into it with a deep sigh. Damn, it's good to be off his feet. "Moira and I are thinking about doing a collaboration with Erik. Something about physics and the body, yeah? Erik is wary of it- he always is when it comes to "ruining" a P.E. lesson with academics- but I think we've got him this time. And I think Sebastian might be of help, too, what with his wonderful mutation-"

"Charles."

Startling- when was the last time his mother interrupted him?- Charles looks up from where he's been fiddling with his cane and into his mother's face.

Her cheeks are shiny in the low evening light. Charles is exhausted, so it takes him too long to piece together the significance of the revelation. Long seconds pass as he stares blankly at his mother's face.

"Mum?" he asks, thrown. "Are those- You've been crying. What happened?"

He struggles to get to his feet, but she shakes her head and gets to her own. Book held tightly to her chest, she crosses lightly to the bed.

Even on her way out of this life she is graceful, he thinks mournfully. Her dress is only slightly wrinkled from sitting, her hair styled in the 60s curls her caretaker kindly sets for her. She even smells like her favorite perfume.

He will never understand how she has the strength to get herself ready every day. A full face of makeup, neat outfit, even her shoes. She could easily be going out shopping rather than staring out the window, sipping at eye-wateringly strong sangria all day. But she prefers her room now. Leaving takes too much out of her, and Charles can't bring himself to force her.

She takes a seat on the bed perpendicular to him. For a moment she just sits there, watching him owlishly. "Charles?" she asks again.

"Yes, Mum?"

"Did you and Erik have another fight?"

Charles gapes at her. How could she know? They already made up. The argument was a while past, and of course he has been visiting her every day, yet she never mentioned overhearing them. She would have if she had- she dislikes loud noises. They disturb her, fill her with nightmares.

So what makes her bring it up now of all times?

"What makes you say that?" he asks, trying to keep his voice unaffected.

She huffs. "A mother always knows. Besides, it's hard to miss when that boy is upset. He's terribly loud about it."

"I-"

"Don't fret so much. I'm not upset, Charles. Only curious."

Blowing out a breath, Charles shakes his head. "Next time someone asks me why I never just speak my mind, I'm going to send them to you."

His mother rolls her eyes. "There is still some of that lovely wine your Spaniard found. I left a glass under your chair. Pour yourself a cup of you like. I'd like you to read to me tonight." She pauses, a strange look coming over her face. "If you have the time."

Charles does as he's bade with only a quiet, "I always have time to read to you," but rather than take the book his mother holds out to him, he puts his hands over hers. "I always have time for you," he says again, only just resisting the urge to use his gift to impress the thought on her mind. "You're my mum."

"And now you're all those children's mum," she returns primly, but she softens the words with a shadow of a smile. "Stop dawdling. I've marked the page I want you to start on."

"Pushy," Charles grumbles happily. "This had better not be raunchy poetry again."

"That was an accident, as you well know."

Chuckling, he opens the book to the chosen page and, skimming his mother's mind in case this unexpected burst of lucidity is going to see a repeat of the erotica incident, he relaxes. Poetry, yes, but nothing explicit.

 _"The world is full of loss,"_ he begins, and his mother settles on her side with a soft expression he has to look away from. _"Bring, wind, my love, my home is where we make our meeting-place, and love whatever I shall touch and read within that face."_

***

"I can't believe you forgot the ice cream. Who forgets the ice cream for an ice cream cake?"

Charles frowns. "Excuse me if cold things are low on my priority list at the moment."

Moira rolls her eyes but accompanies him to the freezer aisle.

They discovered the missing item by chance, but Charles volunteered to go back in alone, considering desserts were his area this time around. Moira came along anyway. She claimed it was because she wanted to get a tub of her own while they were there, but Charles suspects she has an ulterior motive. She has been eyeing him up like she wants to say something for a while. With Janos and Shaw keeping him on his toes and Erik no longer dodging him like an unhappy cat, Charles is in the mood to make it easy for her.

Even if she does have an inexplicable fondness for cherry ice cream.

"Unless that's the tub you intend to buy for yourself, put it back," he says, recognizing the ping of victory in her mind. "The children don't want to eat something that tastes like cough syrup."

"Fuck off," Moira calls back cheerfully, even as she replaces the tub of ice cream.

Charles shakes his head. Refocusing on his search for the chocolate chip cookie dough- why must there be so many versions in this frigid hell, and must they all be so bright?- he wonders if he couldn't get away mint chocolate chip. Or a pre-made ice cream cake. What twelve-year-old has a palate sophisticated enough to enjoy the homemade labor of love he usually makes? So long as it's sweet and cold, would they really mind something store bought?

"¡Que furioso!" exclaims a familiar voice. "What is the cause of such an expression?"

"Janos!" Hauling himself upright, Charles gestures at Moira to come over. "How are you, my friend? Let me introduce you. Janos, this is Moira, a friend and fellow teacher. Moira, this is Janos Quested. Janos runs that little shop out front."

Janos takes the hand Moira holds out to him and uses it to reel her closer to trade air kisses. That, Charles can admit, is one of the more ridiculous continental habits and one he doesn't mind America not inheriting. His mother blames all the time Charles spent in here as a child. She loves an air kiss. (He will never admit it aloud, but one of Charles' dearest memories is Erik's first meeting with Charles' mom. He will never forget the confusion, borderline terror, on his friend's face when the rich lady took his hands in hers and kissed the air by his face. It was the first time he ever saw his friend completely out of his depth.)

Moira meets Janos with all the confidence of someone whose sport of choice is competitive telephone pole throwing.

They pull apart but not as far as they usually might. Charles feels a prickle of interest.

_Well, hello._

He doesn't quite smile as he takes the cart and sneakily directs it away toward the baking aisle and the dessert toppings, but only because his knee is acting up.

***

"So," Charles says later as he buckles up, "it seems like you and Janos hit it off."

Moira shrugs. "He seems like an all right guy. Bit shy, but he's interesting."

"In other words, my master plan to set my best friend up with the hot the European is a go."

The van splutters to life. "There is no way you orchestrated that."

Charles sniffs. "I have multiple PhD's from two of the world's most prestigious universities. I think I can handle a surprise meeting."

"PhD or no, you're still an eejit," Moira informs him as she flips off a sporty little car that cuts them off.

"Oh, I'm sorry. Did you not want to come with me on next week's grocery run? Janos' shop will be open. I guess I'll have to eat the mistake cookies all by myself..."

"Fuck off. He's mine, Xavier. Don't fight serendipity." She says it haughtily, but Charles knows her too well to be fooled.

"You need to stop focusing on what you don't have," he advises. "Levine, that horse's arse, is gone. Sean isn't an option. But Janos?" He waggles his brows. "Moira, Janos is available, and he's into you."

The drive back goes the way all drives with Moira go. Charles alternately gasps with laughter at Moira's friendly jibes and howls at her reactions to his own. The throbbing in his joints fades as Charles collapses against window, chortling in delight as Moira recounts the tale of Alex and Darwin's latest adventures in flight. Moira now has to replace both of her classroom windows, but the first years enjoyed seeing two of their teachers at "work". (No project involving that couple is work. Armando is too easy going, and Alex's ideas are too ludicrous.)

"Darwin bounced," she tells him excitedly. "When I saw them drop I thought they were going to pull a Sean, but no! Not a single second of flight. Then they came back up, and I don't know who was shouting loudest!"

Charles smiles, more at his friend's good mood than the story that has been making the rounds for more than a month. "You're happy," he observes.

Expression pinching, Moira frowns as she pulls into the garage. "You say that like you're surprised."

"I say that like I'm relieved," Charles corrects. "I'm glad to see my friend coming back."

"You can read that from my mind?"

"I can read it in your face, because we're friends. And yes, I felt your psyche, and it's healing beautifully."

She gives him an odd look, one of the ones that feels like she can see right through him. He does wonder if some mutant gifts can't have long-term effects on the people around them. Moira has been his friend for years, and she has the fewest qualms about sharing her mind with him. If his telepathy is rubbing off on anyone, Moira is the most likely. She is exceptionally perceptive. Preternaturally, almost psionically insightful.

Or she is just very intelligent and good at reading people. Or both. Difficult to tell.

She doesn't press him, so Charles shakes the feeling off. They grab the bags from the back and trundle their way into the kitchen.

***

Two days later, Erik and Logan get into one of their pissing contests and wind up eating all the bananas. The athletes protest the lack of appropriate snacks, so someone has to go shopping.

Charles and Moira reluctantly volunteer. Because someone has to do it.

Janos has extra cookies. Charles and Moira are more than happy to eat them.

Erik and Logan are too busy lying in the infirmary sleeping off their hubris to know the crumbs tracked through the kitchen aren't from the children.

***

Saturdays are the ideal time to cook. Erik and Kitty keep the Sabbath together, which tends to mean the two of them nap or do their Jewish thing in the salon. In the morning, the other students either sleep in or munch cereal mindlessly in front of the morning cartoons- an activity the teachers, by way of crashing in the nearby rooms, can’t help but follow. More than one has complained that catchy children’s theme songs are making their love lives harder. After cartoon time, the children typically spend the rest of the day back in bed or lounging around.

Charles uses the Saturday before the December party to make the traditional ice cream cake. The recipe is simple, hardly more than five ingredients, but putting it together is time consuming. Each layer has to freeze fully before the next can be added. The hour or so between delivering the pan to the freezer and fishing it out is insufficient for Charles' hands, which protest the extended exposure to all that cold, to recover.

The children love it, though. They argue between themselves over what flavor of ice cream to get and what topping they want on it, but once it's done, they always enjoy it. And that is worth all the cold hands and back twinges in the world.

He is in the middle of spreading the layer of chocolate sauce over the ice cream when Raven comes in. Her mind is stormy, and Charles can feel the atmosphere in the kitchen change in his bones as surely as a shift in the weather.

Perhaps if he just keeps his head down, they won't-

"I don't understand why you let her stay here."

\- fight. Charles lets out a breath. He doesn't need his gift to explain who "she" is. Nor does he need it to predict the course of this discussion. "This is her home as much as ours, Raven."

"Even though the children are scared of her?"

"They aren't scared. I have explained to them that the upper level is my mother's home, and they accept that. Mutants understand retiring personalities better than most, even as children."

Raven gives him a smile that bares her teeth. "You seem sure of that."

"Why do you insist on making me have this conversation over and over again?" Charles snaps. The jar makes a sharp thump as he puts it down too hard. "She gave you what she could. I'm sorry if it was too little, but damn it, Raven, she tried. It's more than you ever gave her."

"You're a fool if you think she cares about you." Raven draws herself up. "She's just a dying old drunk, and you're too busy pretending to be a good son and using her to hide from your problems to do what needs to be done!"

 _Get her gone._ Raven has been pushing for this for years. _Send her somewhere so we don't have to live with a ghost._ Charles would sooner cut off a leg.

His hands hurt. "I'm going to put this in the freezer now."

"Charles-"

"Go away, Raven."

For once, she does.

***

Hours later, once the cake has been tucked safely beyond the grasp of unruly fingers, Charles leaves the kitchen behind. Raven hasn't made another appearance, for which is a relief. He doesn't have the energy to be kind to her if she brings up Sharon again.

He ought to visit his mother, but he hates to face her after a fight. She never quite took to Raven. It was a constant source of tension between them for years. Now, after she okayed his plans to turn the house into a school and Charles' mistakes with his first class forced him to examine his knowledge of human nature, he feels more conciliatory towards Sharon. Some people just don't have it in them to be affectionate. Raven learned to be tough too early; she and Irene most often clash over Raven's tough love attitude- and Irene's excessive forgiveness. Sharon is emotionally exhausted. Her well never fully refills.

Putting two women as world-weary as Raven and Sharon together was never going to create the happy family Charles had been convinced it would. Sharon is aware enough to see that Raven resents her, guilty enough to blame herself.

Knowing that, it only makes sense for Charles to hold off on visiting her until his mind is less strung out.

He has just shrugged off his cardigan and sat down to untie his shoes when someone knocks on his door.

"Charles?" Erik asks. "You in there?"

_I'm in here. Come in._

Erik does. He casts a critical eye over the piles of clothes around the edges of Charles' room but wisely makes no comment on them. "I heard you and Raven earlier," he says instead.

"Here to get your digs in, too, are you?"

"I'm not." Charles doubts that, but before he can voice it, Erik continues. "I don't disagree with you on everything."

"Only most things," Charles says sourly.

Erik shrugs. "It's more interesting this way. But I didn't come to talk about us. I wanted to ask you why."

"Why what?"

"You're devoted to her. It isn't obligation that makes you want your mother near. After all she failed you, you still speak fondly of her. I wondered why."

Charles studies his feet. "She is my mother. Perhaps she did not have the spare love to dote on me, but she gave me all she could, at her own expense. Isn't that enough?"

Erik lifts his brows, his skepticism clear.

The motion jars loose a piece of Charles' mind that has been clinging to his psyche like a bleeding hangnail. Fists clenching against bitterness as deep as it is old, Charles breathes in hard through his nose. "If you think it has always been roses in this house, you're as naïve as you claim I am."

Surprise tickles at him. Charles bats it away. "Have you ever owned a home, Erik? Do you have any idea how expensive it is, how difficult it is to maintain? Let alone one as big as this? Do you know how old this estate is? It was crumbling when I came to own it. I assure you, you do not have the first inkling of what my mother, a woman who barely graduated secondary school, had to manage for years."

"I didn't mean it like that-"

"No! I have had enough of hearing my mother scorned by people who have no right! She could have stopped, you know," he says, a hitch of manic laughter bubbling up in his throat. "Kurt Marko would have taken over the expenses, and she could have let herself sink into the depression she has battled all her life. But she did not. Do you know why?"

Erik shakes his head.

"Because Kurt Marko was a brute. He beat his flesh-and-blood son, and one night, a month after their engagement, my mother saw him raise his hand to me. My 'deadbeat' mum, my 'useless drunk' of a mother, didn't retreat. She didn't pretend she hadn't seen.

"The woman you scorn, who doesn't reach your shoulder, flew across the room and attacked a man twice her size. She swung her glass at his skull. She clawed at his eyes with her perfectly manicured nails. She chased him from the room and out of this house." He pauses to swipe at the wetness gathered in his eyes. "'Not my son,' she screamed. 'You will not touch my son.'"

_I will not let that happen. I will not fail Charles. Not my boy._

Charles gets the chills just remembering the fury pouring off his mother. "She was incandescent. I hadn't seen her so alive since we buried my father, but there she was. It was like nothing I'd ever felt. The room spun with the force of her rage. Her love. For me, Erik. Not for the only child she had with her husband. Her mind was resolute: I will protect _Charles_. And when it was done, she came back for me, brought me back to the big bed in my parents' room, and let me sleep in there with her. She held me all night. All of it. My mother did. So what if she was distant again in the morning? I knew she loved me at the heart of it."

Lifting a hand, he points to his palm. "She still has scars from the glass. It broke in her hands, and she didn't stop." He swallows against the lump in his throat. Sharon never complains about her hands, though they must feel dreadful in the winter chill. "It's why she needs so much help with her buttons, you know."

Erik slowly makes his way over and sits down beside Charles. "I always thought it had more to do with the..." He gestures at his temple.

Charles shakes his head. "Raven has said much the same. The truth is less interesting, I'm afraid. Just a mother too angry to fear a bully. I owe her every comfort, Erik. She raised me with all the love she had."

"That's all?" Erik shakes his head this time. "You're leaving part of it out."

He isn't wrong. "If I were her, I would want to have someone love me enough to sit through my tempers and help me get my clothes on right." Charles rubs at his forehead. "I can feel her wasting away. All that sickness lingering in her body, knowing she's going to die and there's nothing she can do- it's awful. I think sometimes that she wishes she had died getting rid of Kurt. It would have been... neater. But I can't wish that."

Erik nods, and of all people, his understanding is the most important.

They go their separate ways not long after. Charles is calmer having gotten his upset off his chest, and Erik has “plans” with Frost. Whatever that means.

Sharon is calm when Charles goes in, if too tired to do anything more strenuous than lift her head for him to buss a goodnight kiss to her cheek.

***

One day later, Charles trudges up the stairs at the end of an impossibly long day. He thinks about his mother's stash of "999 wine" and wonders longingly if she will share.

He is about to go in when he comes to an abrupt halt. His mother is not alone. Another voice comes through the door to his mother's room. Once Charles moves past his surprise that someone would be in there and remembers to listen, the person in there with her is an even greater shock.

Sharon's guest is Erik. It makes no sense- the two have little in common, and Erik has never shown any particular interest in Charles' mother. Besides contributing half the necessary genetic information to make Charles, Erik has always shrugged off her existence as something unrelated to him.

Not that he was ever unkind to her. Just the opposite- Erik and his parents have always been gentle with Charles' mother. From Mr. Lehnsherr picking them up when Charles was finally discharged from hospital, to Mrs. Lehnsherr's kindly invites for tea, Erik and his family has been as generous with Charles' mum as they are with him. Sharon could never reciprocate, but he could tell she wanted to. She was rather taken with Mrs. Lehnsherr in particular, in her own way. Not a traditionally beautiful woman, Erik's mother, but Sharon had felt a flash of a wish that she could make her feel as if she were. A nice dress, expensive shoes, a makeover: polish for a slip of a woman with rough hands.

Yet here Erik is, and unless Charles is hallucinating, Erik is being solicitous of Sharon. She asked him to read from her favorite poem, and he complies without complaint.

_“...Lift, wind, my exile from my eyes; peace to look, life to listen and confess, freedom to find to find to find that nakedness.”_

The room falls silent after Erik finishes, and Charles starts to wonder if he shouldn't be getting out of here. Then he hears his mother's voice.

"How are you, Erik?"

Erik coughs. "I'm fine, ma'am."

"Would you like to try that again?" Sharon asks mildly. She isn't upset, exactly, but there is a cold undercurrent of discontent to her mind below the haze of alcohol. "It helps if you convince yourself of the lie before you try to convince others. Let alone pass it off to an Xavier. We can smell deceit."

"I should have known." Erik chuckles darkly.

"You should tell Charles about it. He would be pleased to help you."

"Charles can't help with this," Erik confesses, voice scratching on its way out. He sounds so tired, Charles wants to throw the door open and make his friend tell him what the problem is. "I know the way of the world. My life has been more blessed than I deserve."

"Bullshit."

Erik chokes out a loud, startled noise, which is fortunate because Charles does the same.

Sharon's mind takes a sour turn. "You have seen more than many, but you know very little of the world, child. Too little to speak of knowing its ways. But I, in my great old age, will tell you something good. There is no cosmic tally. If you want something, speak! If you will not do that, then it is your own doing that you don't get what you want. Don't blame the world for your own cowardice." She relents, and a moment later, surprise blares out of Erik's mind. "I always liked you," Sharon says, almost too softly to be heard. "I wasn't sure I would, but I saw the way you made Charles smile. 'Who is this boy?' I thought. 'What is it about him that makes my child so happy?' I still haven't figured it out, but it remains a fact that you're good for Charles. I can rest easier knowing he's in your hands."

A wave of dismay crashes over Erik, and Charles knows instinctively that now is the time to retreat.

His heart pounds the entire way to his room and refuses to settle until long into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: canonical child abuse, domestic violence. To avoid that, skip from "Because Kurt Marko was a brute” and pick up at “Erik slowly makes his way over…” All you’ll miss is Sharon protecting Charles from Kurt.
> 
> The poem Charles and Erik read to Sharon is Muriel Rukeyser’s [“Song”](http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/detail/23046).


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So much for weekly updates. I finished re-reading (Yes, I do actually do that...) earlier than I thought and don't like having finished things hanging about, so this will update more frequently.

_Oh, grow to know me. I am not happy. I will be open._

“CAKE! CAKE! CAKE! CAKE!"

Irene chuckles. Leaning closer, she says, "I think they're ready for cake, Professor."

Charles lets out a heavy sigh as he pushes himself off the couch and to his feet. He had been comfortable where he was, but he isn't that bothered about getting up. The party has been a hit among the students and the faculty alike. Everyone is chattering happily- or was, before the chanting started up. Now the room is full of adults rolling their eyes, even though a few of them are just as interested in dessert as the students are.

The chanting dissolves into cheers. Someone, whose cider probably did not come from the collective virgin punch bowl, tries to start up a round of _He's A Jolly Good Fellow_. It doesn't stick thankfully, but the good mood remains unblemished as Charles makes his way to the kitchen.

Raven is already there when Charles finally dodges the last foot and steps into the cooler kitchen air. Her arms are folded across her chest, scales reflecting the glow of the strings of the multi-colored lights hung around the windows.

She really is beautiful. Charles still feels peculiar when he sees her naked, but he can admit a bit of awkwardness is a good trade for the confidence his sister has in herself these days. She inspires it in the children, too. Charles has difficulty finding teachers with physical mutations; it's good for the students to see someone who does have one walking around without shame of her appearance. Which is why Charles doesn't try to make her put on a robe.

Even when he's angry with her, Charles can't resent the progress she's made.

He doesn't know what to do with a quiet Raven, though. She isn't glaring at him or crying. What is he supposed to do?

Stand in the middle of the room until she speaks, apparently.

Behind him, the partiers are laughing about something, but their amusement is not enough to wash out the uncomfortable atmosphere in the kitchen.

He should get the cake. "I should probably just-"

"I talked to Irene."

Charles blinks. "Sorry?"

Raven shifts, physically and mentally. "I talked to Irene. A lot. And I guess- I didn't handle things well. With Sharon, I mean."

"You- really?"

"I'm not saying you were right," Raven says sharply. "But I was... not totally right either." She sighs. "Irene said- She told me to remember you haven't always been my brother. I didn't forget that, okay? I know we don't share blood. It's just... You and Sharon were a family before I came around, and I don't like thinking about that. I don't like remembering I'm not really an Xavier. I'm always going to be a Darkhölme. And that sucks. So I get mad when you treat her like she's an angel, because for all I know, she was to you, but not me."

Over the years, Charles has gotten four genuine apologies from his sister. This makes five.

He tries to speak, but the words stick in his throat. His knuckles creak where they're clasped tight around his cane. "Raven, I- I am so, so sorry. I've always thought of you as my sister. Things are complicated with Sharon. But I should have thought of that."

"Yes, you should have."

“I just wanted you to know she wasn’t always like this. She was a good mum, and she did try."

"And that’s why you won't even consider finding her somewhere else to live?" Raven asks without rancor.

Charles nods. "In part. Though I think you were right when you said I use her as an excuse. Don't be too hard on me, darling. I'm not the brave one. My sister is."

Damn it. His eyes are watering. But so are Raven's, and she is the first to let them out. Fat droplets rush down her face, leaving tracks if wetness that glisten in the light just like her scales.

Her voice is thick when she asks, "Can I have a hug now?"

Charles nods, cane abandoned in favor of catching his sister as she plows into him. She's solid under his hands, the uncommon texture of her skin no longer exotic and intriguing. Only familiar. This is his sister. This impulsive, tough-as-nails woman who spends her days chasing the worst of humanity and saving children is the same woman who just rubbed her wet, snotty face on him.

"I hate that you're taller than me," he grumbles against her cheek. "Why can't you be short, like a nice sister?"

Raven snorts. "Deal with it, short stuff."

"Sod off." Because he's still stupidly giddy about it, he adds, "Mrs. Xavier-Adler."

She laughs and squeezes him even tighter, which hurts more than Charles was braced for, but his gasp is lost to the sound of someone new throwing the door open.

Lifting his head- those two inches really matter, yikes- Charles twists so he can peer past his sister's shoulder and see why the interloper hasn't said anything.

Erik is standing in the doorway with a look of wonder. Charles suspects the not-talking comes from the same cause as the slack-jawed stare. Knowing Erik, that would probably be the hard apple cider.

"Take a photo," Raven advises as she lets Charles out of the hug. "It lasts longer."

Erik blinks, his mind fumbling for a retort it knows it has somewhere.

Definitely the cider.

"Erik, my friend," Charles calls, hoping to lure the man to the table before he tips over. He doesn't have to force his voice to be jolly. Raven's amusement and the joy of not fighting with anyone is more than enough. "Won't you come over and sit down?"

"Cake," Erik says instead, determined to complete his mission. "Came t' get th' cake..."

Ah, yes. The thing Charles came out here for in the first place. Beckoning Erik toward the table, he croons, "Why don't you sit down right here, and I'll go get it like I was supposed to, huh?"

"How about I get it instead?" Raven volunteers. "It's in the second chest freezer, right?"

She says it not because she wants Charles to stay and take care of Erik- a troublesome task, given how friendly and spacey Erik gets when he's had a few. She says it because she's worried about Charles' ability to handle the stairs.

But that's what sisters do, Charles reminds himself. They worry. Her mind isn't worrying that he can't manage the walk to the basement and back. It's too busy gauging whether Charles got into the adult cider, too- Erik, who isn't a lush, clearly got into it, so she isn't wrong to wonder- which is the sort of thing anyone would be worried about.

Raven did visit him at Oxford. She knows her brother is accomplished in the art of faking sober-talk.

"Too late," Erik chirps, just as the cellar door flies open and the metal cake pan comes whizzing out. It comes to a stop a foot from Charles' face.

If they hadn't still been standing next to each other, Charles would never have had a chance at stopping Raven from throttling Erik. As it is, he barely holds her back when she lunges forward, and even then, he can't do anything about the verbal onslaught she flings at Erik over Charles' head. While struggling to escape Charles' hold.

Only the timely appearance of Irene, who must have taken the long way around, distracts Raven from doing something disastrous like escaping and hitting Erik with the pan and messing up the cake. Instead, she stops wriggling the moment she catches sight of her wife. Her mind doesn't entirely let go of its thirst for vengeance, but she calms enough that Charles feels reasonably secure letting her go. Raven immediately trots over to Irene, who puts an arm around her.

_Well done, old man._

Charles scowls. His sister-in-law adopted Raven's term of endearment far too quickly. He would resent more it if he didn't like Irene so much.

It also helps that she shared her memories of how she dressed when she first lost her sight. It was good. Cathartic, even. Charles isn't the only one whose condition has changed his wardrobe. He may not even hold the record for most horrendous fashion choice.

The women turn to go, but as they do, Irene catches his eye and throws him a wink.

What that means, Charles refuses to guess. For all people say telepaths talk in circles, precogs are infinitely worse.

Turning his attention back to Erik, he finds the man in the middle of "surreptitiously" sliding the cover off the pan. His face says trouble, and the finger he's about to use to free a bit of the top layer of cookie crumbles confirms it.

"Oi!" Charles barks. Erik pulls his finger back with an expression of intense guilt. "You'll get your piece. After everyone finishes telling me how beautiful my cake is."

Erik sighs sadly but allows Charles to take the dessert from him.

"Thank you. We'll need a knife to cut it, though. Could you grab it for me- and my cane while you're at it?"

A moment later, Erik is proudly holding a meat cleaver and an aluminium baseball bat. He stares at them in confused amazement as if he has no idea what they are or how they came to be floating in the air.

"Wha? Didn' wan' _you_."

Charles shifts the pan so he can pat the nearer of Erik's arms. "You know what? Those are close enough."

"'S no’ your stick," Erik protests. Squinting and craning his neck, he asks, "Where- Where's yer stick, Charles?"

"Don't worry about it, darling. We'll get it later. You want cake, right?"

Nodding eagerly, Erik mentally reminds himself which door he wants. He keeps fluttering back to how nice Charles smells, though, which makes him frown.

Easily distracted Erik is one of Charles' favorites. He's adorable. Unlike sober Erik, who is neat and holds himself at a distance, drunk and distractible Erik is a mess of affection, eager to please and content to go with things. Under the right circumstances, he will even happily go on long, incomprehensible diatribes that start out vaguely plausible and end with Erik pondering his fingers.

They enter the party room to gleeful chaos, which only settles slightly at Erik's loud, "Th're's fuck'n' cake!"

And now, the students who have never seen Mr. Lehnsherr drunk get their first introduction.

Logan grumbles about adults with potty mouths, which gets a scandalized look from Erik, before demanding that they eat the damn thing already.

If the man weren't six sheets to the wind, Charles would have Erik do it. As he isn't about to encourage the older students to use their gifts when they're intoxicated, he ends up getting Raven to do it. The ensuing scuffle for cake is too much for Charles, so he sneaks away. Erik is a big boy. He will get his cake.

The room is a mess all around, but Charles is saved from trying to figure out where he can sit by a pointed, _Over here._

Sebastian has one of the loveseats they dragged in earlier all to himself, his body on one cushion and a long leg extended over the other. He moves as Charles approaches, freeing up a spot.

Charles flops down with a groan of gratitude. "Thank you. Christ, I feel like I've been standing for a week."

"You probably have been," Sebastian observes. "You certainly put a lot of effort into this, and it looks wonderful." He pauses to look around. "Well, it did anyway. You're a good man, Professor Xavier. These children are truly lucky to have you."

"It's nothing," Charles says, shrugging off the praise. It is nice that someone noticed, though. He can't expect the children to go out of their way to thank him, and the ones who do are the ones he most wishes would not. "And I thought I told you to call me Charles."

"What can I say? I'm rather in awe of all you've accomplished. It's difficult not to want to call you Professor."

Sebastian is blatantly hamming it up, but Charles has never minded that. Unlike Erik, Charles is a fan of ham. And pig meat in general, really. The more, the better.

They lapse into silence, which Charles uses to take in his family. Raven and Irene are curled up together on the other loveseat. Piotr, Kitty, and Ilyana are sitting on the floor nearby, the three alternating between eating, laughing, and whispering to each other. Across from them, Bobby and John are locked in yet another staring contest. A few steps away, Anna Marie is rolling her eyes as she stuffs an enormous bite of cake in her mouth. Ororo and Jean are sitting with Logan, but their attention is obviously on Logan's friend Yukio, who is looking around in weary affection. Erik is conspicuously missing, but that could mean any number of things.

_Charles._

_Yes, Moira?_

_The little ones are starting to crash._ She sends him a mental image of Sooraya asleep with her face on her plate. _I'm going to start packing them up before they all fall asleep._

_I'll help. Just give me a moment-_

_Absolutely not._ Moira's mind is firm. _You spent all day getting this set up. Sit down, have some grown up cider, and enjoy yourself. I can handle a few sticky faces._

Charles pushes his thanks at her. Moira truly is a gift.

"Aren't you going to get a piece for yourself?" Sebastian asks. "I had thought to wait until the crowd dispersed, but they're still swarming."

True enough. Enterprising partiers are already lining up for seconds. Logan has taken over for Raven, and Charles pretends he doesn't notice how close those adamantium claws are coming to shredding his favorite cake pan.

"I'm sure I'll get my portion," he says idly. "I'm just glad they like it."

"Some rather too much."

Charles follows the brow Sebastian raises down one long finger to a certain white-clad professor sucking on a spoon. "Oh. She... likes it." Charles blink, but his eyes aren't playing tricks on him. Emma Frost actually is happily working her way through a generous pieces of Charles' cake. "She actually likes it?"

"I've never known a woman to eat that much, that messily if she didn't," comes the mocking reply.

Sebastian must not have encountered any recently broken up women. Or hungry ones. Any delusions Charles might have had of women being dainty little creatures were long dead by the time his sister hit eight. Raven, and the few friends she had in school, we're not the tea party type.

Something about Sebastian's comment bothers Charles, but he can't put his finger on what.

He must fall asleep, because the next thing he knows, a pinch-faced Erik is shaking him awake.

Batting the annoyance away, Charles grumbles, "Whaz goin' on?"

"Party's over, Cinderella," Erik says, too sober. "Time to go to bed." Some of the weariness eases, and, with all the smugness of a cat with a bellyful of canary and cream, Erik produces the pan. "If you promise to brush your teeth after, I'll let you have the leftovers."

"How much is there?" Charles asks suspiciously.

"Just about a cup's worth, but it's mostly cookie crumbles."

Damn. That's Charles' favorite type of leftovers, and Erik knows it.

"Get me a spoon?"

"Already done. I even saved some of the Bailey's for you."

If Charles were ever going to kiss someone in thanks, it would be now. He doesn't kiss Erik, though. Instead, he lets himself be pulled to his feet and half carried to bed.

Erik winds up stealing bits of the prize before falling asleep on his belly, face down on the unused end of Charles' overlarge bed. He's still fully dressed, but so is Charles. They can hate themselves in the morning.

***

Charles wakes up with a groan. The sound that woke him up, an awful sound like a cow giving birth, refuses to stop. If anything, it only gets worse.

"N' m're," Charles moans. "No pukey-puke here." Something clammy smacks him in the face. "Ow."

"Hush," Erik grouses. The bed shifts nauseatingly under Charles as Erik adjusts his position. "I'm starting Chanukah with a hangover because of you."

"Better than a broken nose."

A surprised noise possibly related to a laugh escapes his brother in misery. "I almost forgot about that. Thanks for reminding me."

"I'll let you forget when your mum does."

Which they both know will never happen. Edie Lehnsherr's maternal disappointment will outlast them all. (As the broken nose was, debatably, sort of, potentially somewhat Charles' fault, that disappointment will stay with him, too.)

Charles rolls over onto his belly, taking the pressure of his weight off his hip, and only just remembers to tell Erik his gift is in Charles' sock drawer before burying his face in his pillow. It took me a long time to find someone who could make it, so don't even think about refusing to accept it, he adds mentally.

Giving Erik his gift before Erik can give Charles his has been a source of contention from the early days. When Chanukah does intersect with Christmas, he waits until then, but that isn't the case this year.

Erik's mind is prickling with interest, but he makes the usual grumbles about Charles spending money on him even though they're adults and whatever the reason for their friendship is, it isn't Charles' gifts.

It always makes Charles smile. The grumblier Erik is, the happier he feels. They've never discussed how tight money was for the Lehnsherrs, but Charles was a smart kid. Erik's delight at little things like an especially nice sweater or a popular toy was hard to miss. The real trick had been figuring out what Erik would accept and what would make him angry.

There were a lot of fumbles along the way, but Charles is now a master of toeing the line without crossing it.

His dresser squeaks as Erik opens the drawer and fishes out his prize. Charles hitches the covers up further in an effort to keep his smile hidden. He really did spend a long time getting it just right. Flawlessly designed, practical, personal- Erik is going to love it.

"Happy birthday wrapping paper this time, I see," Erik observes mildly. "You'd have better luck passing that off with a Christian, but points for neatness."

The mattress shakes with the force of Erik's return. Charles doesn't object. He simply rolls over, the better to watch Erik's reaction. The sound of Erik's meticulous unwrapping is maddening. One edge at a time, tape lifting free without ripping the wrapping paper it sealed, Erik unveils his gift.

Hurry up. Charles bites his finger to keep from laughing.

"They're... headphones?"

"Bluetooth headphones," Charles corrects. "You're always complaining about the wires on the ones you have now getting in the way. These will last you eight hours, though I'm you can cheat that somehow. But that's not the best part!"

Erik frowns, confusion coloring his thoughts. "No?"

"Nope!" Charles points to the thin band of metal that attaches the ear pieces. "They're made of organic steel."

"You did that on purpose?"

Charles hesitates. The personal part of the gift is the one aspect he worried about. "I thought you would appreciate the privacy. You can think about whatever you want with these on. I know you have that clunky old helmet, but it looks so silly, and everyone knows you're wearing it to keep telepaths out, which puts people on edge- which is weird, you know? They get so pissy that we exist, yet the moment someone keeps us out, suddenly privacy is a horrible thing. As if we're all searching for terrorists every time we leave the house, aha..."

Charles is rambling, and he knows it. But he can't help it. Erik is just sitting there, staring at the headphones as his face clouds over. All the nice contentedness from earlier is gone. In its stead is an emotion Charles can't place, save that it isn't good.

"Do you not like it?" he asks. "Stupid question, clearly not. I'm sorry, Erik. I'll return it and get you something better, yeah? Just let me-"

He reaches for the box only for Erik to snatch it away.

"No."

"What do you mean, 'no'? You hate it. I'm not stupid."

Erik's eyes flash. "No, Charles."

"I don't understand why you're being like this," Charles growls. "For fuck's sake, Erik, just tell me you hate it. I promise I won't cry."

For a moment, he thinks he might have had him. Then Erik's nose is flaring, and he's jumping to his feet. He jams the device over his ears with a desperate look that makes even less sense than the rest of this stupid fight. But maybe that's because Charles' headache just slammed into psychic recoil as his telepathy tries to find Erik's mind, its sudden ejection leaving Charles with the strangest idea that none of this is actually happening.

"Thank you for the gift, Charles," Erik says woodenly. "It's beautiful. You must have gone to a lot of trouble to find it."

With that, he turns dramatically in a way that makes Charles' guts lurch in sympathy and stalks out.

It takes Charles just a moment too long to shout, "They need to charge first, asshole!"

***

Getting up gives his body the impetus it needs to purge itself. Charles didn't drink that much last night, but he vomits enough to make him wonder. He could hardly get sloshed on less than a bottle of Bailey's of all things. Maybe it was just the ice cream cake? His gut has been more irritable than usual lately...

Slipping into the shower is a relief. The water is hot, and it washes away the stink of anger and too much to drink. His body relaxes under the spray, the rapid unclenching of muscles he hadn't known were clenched making him sway. He puts a hand out on the wall just in case but otherwise lets his body do what it will.

An idle train of thought- (How much hot water is left? Erik probably knows)- brings some of the tension back.

They haven't had a standoff like that since the first birthday party Charles invited Erik to. Usually they just have it out, but that day was different. They were still feeling each other out as friends. Charles had known he liked Erik. He just hadn't known how to make the older boy like him back. Putting on the charm adults liked so much only made Erik's natural reserve more severe, and the harder Erik ground his teeth, the more uncertain Charles became- which only made him push the charming boy routine harder until they were caught in a whirling cycle of hurt. They wound up running into each other at the fountain in the front, Charles stung by Erik's refusal to join in any of the games and Erik upset at Charles' indifference to his presence. Not that either of them knew that and only proceeded to have the most civil, nonsensical arguments.

Why they reenacted that earlier is beyond Charles.

Except this is how they have always been. For all they like each other, he and Erik aren't good at being friends. They like each other as people, even love each other. Charles would not hesitate to trust Erik with his life. But all this fighting, the perpetual unease of never knowing what will provoke Erik, is wearing on him. He doesn't even have the consolation of an unkind mind to galvanize himself into pushing Erik away. The same frustration that sours Charles' mouth lies tightly knotted in his friend's chest. Erik's self-disgust lies heavily over his mind. He wants to be a good friend; all he has ever wanted was to be good. It goes against his nature to be bitter. Yet bitter he is, and the cause is locked away where Charles is not invited to look.

The water is running cooler now. Charles takes a minute for a perfunctory scrub, quickly lathering up his hair and soaping up a washcloth. A quick twist of the head has the spray beating down hard enough to hurt as it washes him clean.

He pulls one of the massive towels around his shoulders on his way out. The day after the party is an easy one, but it's a day of classes nonetheless. Charles eyes his closet skeptically. Just the idea of dress trousers makes his gut hurt. He would like nothing more than to pull on his loosest, softest sweats and crawl back under the sheets. The children would get a kick out of the sight of Professor X's bedhead, but the school has standards. As the headmaster, Charles must set and maintain them.

The others have their own ways of bending their usual manner of dress. Moira will probably be wearing a sloppy dress under her lab coat. Charles envies her the option. Of all the consequences of losing that bet, discovering the wonder of clothes that don't push on the gut was not the one he expected to be most troublesome. Raven, who agreed to don clothes for at least the first half-semester out of pity for the adolescent boys, will likely not be wearing much, if anything at all. And Erik-

Erik will grab his black turtleneck and the stretchy grey trousers Charles got him years ago. Charles suspects Mrs. Lehnsherr's hand in their continued ability to fit Erik. The woman must have some sort of magic touch. Everything she makes lasts years...

Oh. Charles may not be able to wear his sweats, but he has the next best thing.

If only Edie's son fit Charles as well the sweater she gave him does.

_How do two friends as good as you two misunderstand each other so often?_

That was Jakob. In one of their rare, one-on-one run ins, Erik's father found Charles crying one evening. He came to pick Erik up, but when he saw Charles hunched over on the sofa, he sat down with him. The two of them had rarely interacted beyond quick hellos, yet Jakob had spent long minutes rubbing Charles' back and mopping up his tears.

It was the first time, Charles realized later, that he had been held like that since his father's passing. Raven avoided him when Charles was upset- he "leaked" emotions, apparently, which she didn't like- and the Markos... Well, they hadn't exactly been the hugging type. So it was Mr. Lehnsherr who showed Charles that kindness. He was leaner than his wife and daughter, leaner even than Erik, but in that moment, he had been perfect.

Getting along with Erik's family had been a major concern for Charles in the beginning. The Lehnsherrs were devout, even if Erik was not, and Charles' lapsed Episcopalian upbringing had given him no help figuring out how to behave around them. Yet from the moment a scowling Erik introduced him to them, Charles had found himself plied with welcome. There had been some discomfort, but it quickly evaporated when Ruth came in, stared for a bit, then pronounced Charles tolerable.

Now an adult, Charles sees his friend's family less often, but when he does, it's always with the same pang of pitiful envy.

If Mr. Lehnsherr were to ask again what he did on the sofa, Charles could answer him easily. Their tempers are too quick. It's that simple.

As he pulls on a pair of elastic-waist trousers, Charles considers their current problem. It feels like he and Erik are just... temporarily skipping, like a scratched DVD. They will get in sync and smooth out soon enough. They will.

But what if they don't? What if they just make it worse?

He needs an outside opinion. Not just any outside opinion, though. There is only one person in the world who knows them both well enough to make a judgment call on this: Magda.

It's been long enough since the divorce that Charles can call her. Hasn't it?

***

Setting Moira up with Janos proves the perfect distraction from the storm cloud masquerading as Erik. Moira has her own car, so they aren't beholden to the school's van or the grocery schedule. Which is good, considering Charles wants to get the two of them nice and comfortable with each other come new year's. They can't go every day- even if their schedules permitted it, they don't want to bother him. They manage to go once or twice a week and spend a quarter-hour or so in his shop.

Unfortunately, Janos loses his easy European charm around Moira. He stumbles over his words around her and often turns to Charles for affirmation. It makes Charles work to extricate himself from conversations; Janos always manages to draw him back in before Charles can make his escape.

It's disconcerting to witness the change in him and more than a little frustrating, especially with Moira impatient to get back to flirting on her own. The fact that Janos tends to fall back on asking Charles questions about the school, which Moira is better able to answer herself, doesn't help.

At least Janos has immunity to Moria's ire- comparative immunity at least. She wants him to be more comfortable without the third wheel, but she doesn't take it out on him. Deep down, she's probably actually enjoying the challenge. Just a little. She always did go for the shy ones, after all.

Charles just has to endure until Janos gets comfortable with her.

"I just don't get it," she growls on their way back after an especially clingy Janos spent the afternoon talking more to Charles than to her. "I've never met a guy who was this inconsistent! One minute he's smiling and telling me how pretty I am. The next, he's staring through me like I'm the one who's in the way."

"He's probably just intimidated by you," Charles soothes, knowing it won't placate her but hoping it will anyway. "Maybe next time I won't come along."

Moira hesitates. "You don't think that might be a bit fast? We've only built up an hour or two..."

"It was only a suggestion, my dear. So long as you want me to come, I will."

Reassured despite herself, Moira's mood turns introspective. "It's the strangest thing. I could swear he gets this look sometimes. Almost like he hates me? But then he'll smile at me, and it's the opposite."

"Really? I hadn't noticed. I've been more focused on trying to get out of your way than watching him, though." Charles tries to recall seeing anything like hate on Janos's face but comes up with nothing, but the angriest expression he can recall is boredom.

Moira chews that over for a while. Her CIA training means she doesn't want to doubt herself; it honed her own good judgement and taught her not to second guess her gut. Years of distance between her and her time as an agent disagree. The unexpected breakup with Levine is like ice the fissures, expanding and cracking them open.

"I guess I'm just out of practice," she admits too cheerfully.

"Or self-sabotaging," Charles adds quickly. The less Moira has to fight herself, the better. "It happens to the best of us."

She nods and moves the conversation onto a lighter topic, but Charles knows the matter isn't settled.

***

"As this is the end of your first semester here, I thought perhaps one last chat would be in order."

Emma pauses with her drink an inch from her mouth. Her expression is decidedly colder when she drawls, "I came because you promised me good bourbon and quiet. Not for another evaluation."

"First of all, this is a just a talk. Your position is more than safe, Ms. Frost. Second, how many children have you heard since you came in?" Charles waits for her grudging admittance of none before he continues. "Exactly. Short of someone getting impaled, no one will bother us in here. And finally, please at least try your drink before you throw it at me. It's rather good."

She narrows her eyes. "From Kentucky?"

"Naturally." Charles tips his glass. "Mm, yes, this is definitely one to keep hidden from the children."

After a moment of deliberation Charles isn't privy to, Emma follows suit. She shuts her eyes and lets her head tip back. It's the sort of image that wouldn't be out of place on a billboard: a beautiful woman reclining on a sofa, softly lit by the fireplace behind her, indulgence written in the quirk of her full lips.

He can only guess how much is deliberate and how much is Emma genuinely enjoying the drink.

"Good?"

She cracks one eye open. "Good enough to let you talk at me all you like. For now."

Excellent. "I just wanted to be sure you've been settling in well. There aren't many true psionics here- you, Jean, and I are the only ones- and I realize you and I got off to a rocky start. If there's anything I can do to make you more comfortable, I hope you know I would do my utmost to accommodate you."

"Well, you could stop playing games with me."

Charles freezes. "Pardon?"

"If you want me to be more comfortable," Emma says, deliberately hyper-pronouncing each word, "you can lay off the butter-wouldn't-melt act."

"I don't-"

"The accent, Xavier," she snaps. "You make yourself sound more posh when you want something. Bad news? Get more British. Unhappy children? Get more British! I'm not that simple."

"You do realize I have to have some kind of accent, yes?" Charles grits.

Emma rolls her eyes. "I'm telling you to treat me like an intelligent adult. The bumbling, Hugh Grant act won't work on me. If you want something from me, just ask."

It is true Charles had noticed how susceptible Americans can be to a certain sort of accent. An accent he happens to have. He can hardly be blamed for that. It's not as if he went off and learned it just to get people to do what he wants. It doesn't even work like that anyway. People refuse Charles constantly.

Despite the hackles he can almost feel rising, he is as polite as he can be when he says, "I will do my best not to, ah, act like Hugh Grant."

She levels him with a warning look- yes, all right, that may have been on purpose- but merely says, "Good."

Charles sighs. "So, besides changing the way I talk-"

"Besides not changing the way you talk, you mean."

"Close enough. Besides that, is there anything else?"

He expects her to turn him down. There's a tension in her body even he can't overlook. Any progress he might have made with the drink and the respite, he has clearly lost. Emma is set on disliking him, and Charles will have to accept that.

He and Jean get along fine. Sure, it would have been nice to meet a telepath his age, and one not involved in a love triangle with two of the school's other teachers. But it's fine. Charles doesn't need to be friends with everyone. He's an adult. Not everyone will like him. It's natural. Emma is just being up front with him about it. Which is good. Healthier than pretending they get along when they don't. This is good.

Instead, Emma says, "There is one thing you could do."

Surprised, Charles blurts, "Name it."

"I want my prep period to match Erik's next semester."

"Why would you want that?"

"Because I do," Emma tells him flatly. "Yes or no, Headmaster?"

They have the rough draft of next semester's schedule done, but if Emma and Erik aren't already sharing, Charles could swing it so they did. Probably. "I'll see what I can do."

"Not good enough."

"I told you-"

"Yes or no, Charles. It's a simple decision."

Breaking one of her mental walls just because he doesn't care for the way she's speaking to him would be the worst possible thing to do. It would violate everything psionics live by. Also it's a felony. A five-year prison sentence- at the minimum- a six figure fine, and disgracing the school would not be worth it. The children and mutants as a whole won't benefit from him losing his temper.

Yet Charles would love little more than to rattle Frost. The way she looks at him, as if they aren't equally bound by the law not to use their gifts on unwilling people, makes his skin crawl. She has secrets. Every mental inch of his gift is screaming so. He needs to know them. He doesn't know why he has to, only that his telepathy is unsettled by her.

Unaware of how close Charles is to doing something stupid- he has his own, stronger walls-  Emma taps her fingernails against the snifter glass. "You still there, sugar?"

"I am, and you will," Charles growls.

Mood ruined, he knocks back the last of his drink and gets to his feet. "Good night, Ms. Frost. Please put your glass on the tray with mine and return the bottle to the cabinet when you're done."

 _Well I tried_ , he thinks as he walks out the door. _I tried to be nice to her. Erik can't be angry at me for her not reciprocating._

***

Magda returns his call the following morning. Their conversation is stilted, neither of them knowing how to do this, but by the time they hang up, he has a date with his best friend's ex next month.

It's the best news he's gotten in a long time.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forgot to mention this at the start, but for the purposes of this, in my head, Edie is played by Ofra Haza, Jakob by Daniel Day-Lewis, Ruth by Yael Stone, and Magda by Natalie Portman.

_First my mind in your hand._

The task of handling the new year's party falls to Ororo this year, and Ororo chooses Yukio and Scott as her lieutenants.

Charles could not be happier not to be involved. It may not be a difficult task, but getting everything ready is time consuming. There is more than enough on Charles' plate as it is. His mother has been asking about seeing the lawyer about her will again, one child's parents are making about pulling the boy out and are keeping mum as to why, property taxes just went up for the third time in a row, Erik hasn't spoken to him since Chanukah began, someone tried to break into the safe in his office, and ever since Magda agreed to lunch, Charles has been second-guessing himself.

Should he tell Erik? His gut says no. Absolutely not. If someone else were to tell him, though... That would be terrible. Charles is only meeting up with Magda to talk, not asking her out. He and Moira used to be friends. Are friends. Possibly. Meeting with her is not inherently bad.

Is it?

On top of everything else, he's having a flare up. His bones hurt, his joints never stop aching, his skin burns at every touch. Everything is too loud. Sleep comes, but it is never enough. Getting out of bed takes an eternity. Every thought feels as if it's made of mercury, something slippery and shiny and impossible to hold. He resents having to go to work. He resents the people who force him to leave the soft, near-comfort of his bed for hard, slippery floors and screaming children.

Last time it got this bad, he was at Oxford. He managed it then, when it started up in his last year of studies and stayed until he found a way to write and defend his thesis despite it.

He can handle it now.

The problem is, handling it means returning to the old system. Time is no longer about numbers, or tasks, or what Charles can finish. It is a countdown to the next set of pills.

Amphetamines in the morning to clear some of the fog and help him focus, along with a muscle relaxant and serotonin pills. Narcotics when necessary- but not on an empty stomach, never when he hasn't eaten, so he has to remember to grab a handful of energy bars the night before. And always keep to the schedule. The pills need balance.

Balance, balance, balance.

He lucked out with the doctor. The guy he saw before still has a practice. Not only that, he remembers Charles. One long, depressing phone call and a few late night faxes later, Charles is all set up, and no one at the school is any the wiser.

If he didn't think it would make himself cry, he would pat himself on the back.

 

***

 

The roads are clear the night of the party. No one outright says Ororo had a hand in it, but Ororo definitely had a hand in it. Charles raises a brow at her as everyone gathers outside and separates getting their rides. She arranges her face into a semblance of innocence but ruins it by bursting into laughter as she ducks into Jean's car.

Today is a good day. The children are as excited about the party they get to have tonight with the housekeeper as the staff is about theirs. Charles keeps a strong hold of the air of happy expectation for later.

He's startled from his reverie by the sound of someone shouting his name. He hardly has to time wonder who it is before a pair of arms wraps him in a crushing hug.

"Hello, old man!" his attacker says in greeting, mind bellowing her affection.

Charles shakes his head but puts his arms around her anyway. "Good to see you, too, infant. Did they let the kindergarteners out early, or did you sneak out again?"

Ruth lets him go with a roll of her eyes. "That happened one time," she protests. "And since I'm driving you, you should be nice to me."

"I'm always nice to you."

The look she shoots him is so eerily similar to one of Erik's, Charles almost takes a step back. He shouldn't be so surprised that Ruth and her brother pull similar faces. He has known Ruth almost as long as he has known Erik. Other siblings share expressions; Scott and Alex do it constantly- then again, the Summers boys have more in common than the Lehnsherr siblings.

Ruth and Erik are opposites in nearly every way. Erik is tall and imposing where his sister is short and approachable. Ruth is everyone's ray of sunshine; Erik would like everyone to back up out of his ass. Their tempers are wildly different- Ruth is too busy running around fixing things to get worked up over much, while Erik can nurse hurt feelings for ages. On the flip side, Ruth keeps so busy she tends to forget people. Getting hold of her can feel like making reservations at a fancy restaurant, whereas Erik- Erik can recall the most trivial details about someone. He will remember and repay even the smallest kindness. Getting time with him is as easy as calling his name. That back off attitude can quickly melt into the gentlest temper.

The one trait they have in common is intensity. Everything they do feels purposeful. Every task has their full attention regardless of importance. Whether it's hailing a cab or delivering an address to a crowded auditorium, Erik and Ruth can be counted on to do it with focus.

Fighting with them is like enduring an earthquake.

Charles casts a critical eye over Ruth- an annoying habit the siblings share is not telling anyone when they feel unwell. She seems fine, but that could be a front. Charles will have to keep an eye on her.

He took enough pills to stay lucid enough to do that, didn't he?

"Would you stop with the fussing?" Ruth hisses. "You're worse than Erik!"

"If you weren't so good at feigning good health, I wouldn't have to," Charles hisses back.

Her expression turns sly. Waggling her brows, she says, "If I didn't know you'd never take me up on it, I'd offer to let you examine me, you know."

Charles' blood runs cold. "Please never say that again. I like my face the way it is; I don't need Erik rearranging it."

Ruth is still sniggering at him when Moira appears. Then they both fall silent.

Logically, Charles knows Moira is beautiful. Knowing it in the abstract and seeing it in real life are two wildly different things. Watching his friend who usually doesn't bother with makeup or anything more feminine than her lab coat come striding out the front door fully made up and in a snug dress that stops well above the knee is something else. Her hair is loose, which never happens, and glinting from the depths are earrings that match the pendant hanging just above her low-cut neckline.

Charles fumbles for words, and at the thread of self-doubt that tinges Moira's thoughts, he can only be grateful Ruth beats him to it.

"Hot damn! Looking good, Kinross!"

Moira blushes and ducks her head as she draws up beside them, but the Lehnsherr charm has worked its magic. "You should tell Jean that since she did ninety-nine percent of it. She's a genius."

"She hardly had to work at it, though," Charles muses aloud, "considering you're naturally beautiful."

Moira's eyebrows climb her forehead. Ruth mirrors the action.

Realizing he was overheard and may have crossed a line, Charles add a hasty, "Your face is very symmetrical. Pointy chin, sharp features- all classically feminine."

Both women stare at him for a long, uncomfortable moment. Then Ruth bursts into laughter, loud peals of it that echo and shake her entire body. Hardly a second later, Moira joins her.

His gift tells him it's good laughter, but Charles can't figure out what was funny or why. Nor does he know why, when he offers his arm to a still giggling Moira, his friend kisses his cheek.

"You're all right, Charles," she declares as she slides into the back of Ruth's car, "even if you do support the wrong football teams."

Charles ducks into the front next to Ruth just in time to hear her ask, "Oh, man, is this going to turn into some horrible jock-off? The Patriots and the Giants are equally terrible; please let the rivalry die."

Charles has to bite his cheek not to correct her, but Moira notices, which means the ride to Janos' shop becomes an excuse to introduce Erik's sister to the real game of football and why supporting the Scotland team is an adorable but fruitless emotional investment.

Janos is waiting outside when they pull in, and he quickly sprints to the door Moira pushes open for him. Charles introduces them as Janos gets settled, but there is a strange moment as Janos meets Ruth's eyes in the mirror that Charles could almost swear was recognition, and not the happy sort. Then Moira asks after the shop, and Janos relaxes into his seat. He launches into a story of the confused, elderly Colombian woman whose dialect was so different from Janos' they were forced to resort to English.

"It is always sad to have to speak English," he says with a sigh. "No offense, Charles, but you have to admit, your language is not a pretty one."

Charles does admit it, but he can sense another of Janos' shyness-induced attempts at drawing him in. "Moira will agree with you about English being ugly, I'm sure," he says pointedly. "She and her fellow Scots do their best to undermine the language every time they speak it."

Attempt evaded, Charles gives himself a mental pat on the back. He hears Moira scoff and say, "Improve it, more like," but when he casts a look to his left, Ruth is frowning.

 _Something wrong?_ Charles asks.

Ruth cuts a look at him. _Nothing, probably._

_Ruth._

_I can't talk right now. But I will, all right? So just... be careful for now, all right?_

_Ominous._

_Charles, please,_ Ruth says, all trace of her good mood gone. _I need you to promise me you won't get too carried away until we talk._

_You really aren't reassuring me._

_Charles!_

_Okay, okay, I promise._ Despite his confusion, Charles forces himself to remember that this is Ruth. Anything that gets to her this much is worth taking seriously. _Really, darling. I'll behave. I wasn't planning on drinking tonight anyway, so I'll keep a clear head. All right?_

The noise Ruth lets out is decidedly unladylike. _I'm sure you were. Thank you regardless._ Aloud, she says, "Sorry, I was just remembering last year. How many jello shots did you guys wind up doing again?"

Charles groans. "Too many."

 

***

 

They get to the hotel, and a valet comes jogging over. He looks less than impressed with Ruth's little hybrid but wisely keeps mum as she hands over her keys.

They take no more than two steps before Ruth steps wrong and twists her ankle. Charles is quick to reach her, and she leans heavily into him.

"Ouch!" she says with a wince. "Sorry, everybody, but I'm going to need some help getting up."

"I could take a look if you want," Moira offers, already making to turn back.

"No! Er, you don't have to do that. There's no sense in us all being out in the cold. Charles will be plenty, right, Charles?" Her voice says she's asking, but the look Ruth is giving him says his answer had better be yes.

Charles complies, and despite Janos' concerned protests, Charles is the only one who stays to help.

The moment Janos and Moira are out of earshot and making their way through the lobby, Ruth rounds on him.

"What on earth are you playing at?"

"I'm not playing at anything!"

"The hell you're not!"

"Ruth," Charles says calmly. Not placatingly. Calmly. "Please tell me what you think is happening."

She squeezes his arm painfully tight. "Besides that- that _fuckboy_ having a thing for you?"

"Janos isn't into me."

"Yes, he is," Ruth pushes. He so, so is, Charles."

Charles doesn't walk away only because she's leaning on him. "I'm not having this conversation with you. Janos isn't interested in me. I would know if he were, and he isn't. So let's just go join the others and have a good time. All right?"

That is the last thing Ruth wants to do, but after a moment, she subsides. "You're nuts. I don't know why my brother sees in you."

Neither do I, Charles thinks. "I thought you knew? He's only with me for my money, Ru, my dearest."

They move forward then, but Charles could swear Ruth says something like "if only."

 

***

 

Getting Ruth to take the elevator is much easier when she has a hurt ankle. Charles helps her through the lobby and over the smooth, immaculately buffed floor. He would never say it aloud, but Ruth with a bad ankle isn't so bad. Being the one to do the supporting is a nice change. It doesn't hurt that Ruth is a pretty girl, and without his cane to invalidate him, Charles gets to bask in the envy of everyone who sees them.

"Hey, now. If I don't get to make doctor jokes, you don't get to use me as a prop."

Caught out, Charles drops his head. "Oops?"

"Gross, dude. You're old enough to be my _brother_."

"I can't believe I used to want to trade Raven for you," Charles mutters.

Ruth startles. "Really?"

Charles shrugs. "You were easier to get along with than Raven. I didn't constantly put my foot in it with you."

"Yeah, well, I'm easy."

_"Ruth, please."_

Blowing out a breath, she grows serious. "It's funny you say that. I used to feel the same way. Erik is so serious all the time, and after he manifested, he kept going on and on about mutants. I had a lot of trouble coming to terms with it when I never did." She tucks a stray lock of hair behind her ear, and Charles catches a glimpse of the quiet, uncertain girl who used to tail Erik like a shadow. "And then there was that shit with Hellfire Azazel got him mixed up in. There was a long time that I was genuinely scared of him."

Charles feels himself pull her close without meaning to do it. "Erik would never hurt you," he whispers. "Not even back then."

"Not intentionally, no. But that's not the only way to hurt someone, is it?" She knows about his problems Raven. Everyone in a five-mile radius of any given fight knows about his problems with Raven. "Having you around helped with that. Magda, too, but she's baseline like me. You're a mutant like Erik. You didn't nod along when you heard him quote that manifesto. You balled him out. You, Charles, who never yelled. You got in Erik's face."

Ah, yes. Homo Sapiens Superior: A Better Future. Charles remembers it. Its sole claim to fame is being the most flagrant piece of mutant superiority tripe. "That was an embarrassment to the concept of thought."

"Well, I really needed to hear that." She smiles at him then, a giant, tooth-bearing grin. "So did Erik. I don't think I'll ever forget the look on his face when you waved it in his face and started yelling."

Charles was too upset to appreciate it at the time, but seeing it through Ruth's memory, he can see the humor in Erik's cowed expression.

"'If I hear you spout this shit again, I'll kick your fucking teeth in.' That's what you said. Right before you took my hand and took me to that tea place."

"Your brother was being a knob," Charles says, a touch defensively. "You deserved something nice."

"And that, my dear Charles, is why I harbored a horrible crush on you for half a decade."

The elevator pings, and Charles forgets to be incredulous in the face of this year's liver killer. Against one wall is an entire table dedicated to jello shots. Another is covered in a chaotic mess of bottles, with a number of plastic cups and permanent markers crammed in the corner. Against the opposite wall is a line of tables covered in the weirdest mixture of food. Multiple kinds of takeout are next to a tray of pigs in blankets and shrimp in cocktail sauce. Beyond them is bowl of jelly beans. The floor is littered with bean bags, there are three futons, and, inexplicably, those mover's skateboards they use in PE are all over the place. Someone even attached streamers to them.

Jean is already spinning around jerkily on one, a plate heaped with meatballs in one hand and a glass of red in the other.

Charles fights a burst of paternal pride at the sight. There's my girl, he thinks, returning her happy wave.

There isn't any music going yet, but he can hear Scott grouching about "wireless compatibility" and other dweeb things.

Ororo spots him just after he's helped Ruth flop onto the ugliest bean bag he's ever seen. "So," she asks, "what do you think?"

"We usually have themes, don't we?"

She visibly deflates. "Yes, but- It isn't bad not to have one, is it?"

Charles puts a hand on her shoulder. "I didn't think anything could top last year. Go tell Piotr you kicked his party's arse!"

Eyes flying open wide, Ororo squeals and gives him an enthusiastic hug, which he happily returns. She was such a serious girl when she came to them. Here she is now, laughing with her friends and drinking cheap vodka in a hotel penthouse.

The mental link makes getting Ruth set up with an acceptable plate of cupcakes and a bottle of water easy. Charles reaches for a beer only to think better of it and grab himself a club soda instead. In a fit of adventurousness, he selects an unmarked takeout carton, too, before returning to Ruth and plopping down in the chair next to hers. He trades some of his mystery dish, which Ruth pointed out has kosher scribbled on the bottom, for a cupcake.

Scott gets the music going to a round of cheers. Charles doesn't know the words, but he doesn't need to. The others know it, and though a few people make their way to the makeshift dance floor, most are content to bob their heads to the beat while stuffing their faces.

The song ends eventually, and another replaces it, which in turn is replaced by another. At some point, Charles and Ruth wind up looking out the window and judging the cars in the lot below.

"That is the ugliest color I have ever seen," Ruth giggles, pointing out a rancid-looking green sports car.

"Check out Frankenstein's mons-car," Charles says, selecting an unfortunate vehicle that looks like the sad offspring of a sedan and bad decisions.

Ruth, lovely girl that she is, enjoys the pun immensely, and they continue in that vein, sipping at their drinks and trying to one-up each other, until Charles points to the sole motorbike.

"Now look at that poor thing," he says mournfully. "What kind of man would possibly ride one of those in winter? Not one I'd trust to babysit my children, I'll tell you that."

"One who likes the freedom of getting eighty miles to the gallon and not being beholden to other people's whims, I'd think," a new voice interrupts.

If he concentrates hard enough, Charles can almost recognize the bike. Please don't be his. Please, please, don't be his...

Charles slowly looks over his shoulder. Erik is indeed standing there. None of the expected anger is waiting in his frame; instead, Erik has a look of fond exasperation on his face. It's only habit that has Charles tentatively extending his mind toward Erik's, but habit is a good thing for once. His gift bumps into a thread of Erik's mind already reaching out for him.

 _Missed you,_ one of them whispers.

_Angry at me? Let me back in? Hello?_

Charles smiles. He and Erik can do their reconciliation dance later. _I hear you,_ he says. The tremble of recognition that answers him hurts his heart.

Erik's mind always did want to let him in, even when it thought it didn't.

"Have a good time tonight," Charles tells him, to which Erik raises his bottle.

As he wanders off, Ruth gets to her feet. "No, you don't," she orders. "You stay here. Eat some more. I can catch my brother just fine."

She actually does. With only a whoop for warning, she makes a lopsided dash for a skateboard and sails straight for Erik.

Another similarity between the siblings: utter disregard for minor annoyances like self-preservation.

Watching Erik's expression morph from confused to horrified to disgruntled is amusing, but it shifts one more time. The set of his features turns decidedly stiff, almost sick. He tries to push past Ruth, but she catches him. Charles watches her stretch up to whisper in Erik's ear. Whatever she says drains the blood from his face. He shakes his head and makes another effort at getting past her. She rebuffs him a second time. A flurry of whispers follows. She gestures behind her at one point, and Erik's eyes snap to Charles. They linger unerringly on him as Ruth finishes her talk.

She pats the side of Erik's face, which signals the end of whatever they were discussing as Erik closes his eyes and bows his head to let her put her arms around his neck in a fierce hug. He says something as he returns the embrace that makes her mind loudly fluff itself up.

This, Charles remembers, was the reason he never told Erik about his sister swap idea. Erik and Ruth are a good set. If they ever set their minds to the same task, they would be unstoppable.

At that moment, Raven happens to shimmy around the Lehnsherrs. She halts when she sees Charles. He raises his hand in a friendly wave, and she breaks into a grin as she trots over.

"Tell me you've seen Frankenstein's car," she says before she's even sat down.

Charles laughs and shares his pun. Raven is a less enthusiastic audience, but the wrinkling of her nose does nothing to disguise the wave of fondness she feels for him.

Maybe, Charles thinks optimistically, Erik and Ruth don't have a monopoly on dynamic siblings.

Optimism- that should have been the first clue things were going to end badly.

 

***

 

Charles does not care for Emma Frost. He has done his best to keep that under wraps, but things have a way of getting out despite his efforts. More than one of his teachers has approached him about it. The ratio of pro-Charles to pro-Emma would be mollifying if it didn't worry him so much.

The fact is, Emma is a top rate teacher. Her classes are engaging, and the children report being interested in maths the way she uses it. The ones with poor grades have minimal resentment over it- in fact, they are her loudest supporters.

She makes them feel safe. As sharp as she can be, she can be equally kind if they follow her rules. They don't feel inferior to the others when she helps them. She corrects them firmly, without recrimination. Wrong answers aren't shameful- they aren't good, but they aren't cause for tears either.

Part of her allure, Charles suspects, is due to Emma's willingness to throw her weight around. They have the same scary mutation, but unlike Charles, who would keep his level quiet and earn the children's respect through allowing them to see for themselves that he doesn't know their secrets, Emma leaves nothing to the imagination. She is a powerful telepath, her body can turn to diamond and hold it indefinitely, and she will use either or both to knock through any obstacles in her path.

If it weren't for their personality clashes, Charles would love her. As it is, the best he can manage is tolerance.

Sebastian makes no secret of his intention to take advantage of Charles' feelings about Emma when he comes over and spreads out in Ruth's vacated bean bag. Charles generally tries not to read the man- something about his mind turns Charles' stomach- but Sebastian has had a few. His plan is written clearly in his thoughts.

Charles experiences a sudden, vicious desire to get absolutely rat-arsed. He settles for taking a long pull on his latest soda and being petty. If Sebastian wants to make Charles say something stupid, he's going to have to work for it.

It takes the man a while to recognize Charles is deliberately not recognizing him.

"Having a good time, Headmaster?" he asks.

Charles shrugs. Try it. I dare you.

Sebastian grits his teeth. "Is it always so... sparse? I wouldn't be surprised if Ms. Frost had found her way onto the committee and decorated it with her characteristic flair."

In another room, Scott Summers yelps.

 _Not a love triangle anymore, then._ Charles pinches the bridge of his nose. _A love square, is it? Or is it a pentagon now?_

"It was an ingenious idea of Ororo's actually," he tells Sebastian. The rest of the room is doing a terrible job of pretending not to be listening. "Rather than pretend we're not just going to get drunk and do stupid things, she figured honesty would be the best policy. Personally, I find it refreshing." Raising his voice, he says, "To Ororo!"

Everyone echoes the sentiment, and Charles feels the angry pulse of embarrassment fade from Ororo's mind, replaced by relief.

The dig flew shy of the mark, and Sebastian has turned the mood defensive. A wise man would call it quits.

Sebastian decides to go with the dig deeper approach. "You can't tell me you like her," he complains. "She's so cold. I have never known a woman so unyielding-"

"You might try talking to some," Charles suggests. "Experience is a great teacher."

Sebastian gapes at him. Charles inspects the fascinating wrapper from a previous drink.

Message finally received, Sebastian slinks away.

Erik takes his place. "Articulate."

"I'm sober, you ass."

"That explains the mountain of cupcake papers."

"Only one is mine, actually. The rest belong to your sister."

"Figures." Erik hesitates, but after a moment, he asks, "Want to go up and actually see the view from the roof?"

Charles would like nothing better.

 

***

 

"It really is beautiful up here."

Erik coughs. "No, it isn't. This is White Plains. You just like feeling tall."

"If I wanted to feel tall, I'd ask to sit on your shoulders, Clifford."

"Clifford?"

"You're big, and your hair is red. Therefore: Clifford."

"Oh, Charles. You've been watching too much children's TV."

"I know," Charles tells him mournfully. "But I can't help overhearing it."

"Can you name all the current power rangers, though?"

"Please. I can name all the power rangers ever."

"Without using someone else to look it up."

"...That could present a problem."

Erik chuckles.

Charles tries to watch him, tries to imprint the sight of Erik's face crinkled up in delight, but he can't. If he shuts his eyes he won't tear up. If he doesn't tear up he won't have to wreck their fragile peace balancing on the knife's edge.

Right now, everything is good, and Charles is so happy his heart could break. This is the man he knows. This is his best friend. This one right here, who is smiley and relaxed, his nimble mind slowed down in a haze of contentment.

Erik shifts a hair closer, and Charles tilts his head to lay it on Erik's shoulder.

"If you gained a few pounds, this might actually be comfortable."

"Please stop talking to my mother."

"We nag because we care," Charles says. "And she does have a point about you being thin. I thought for sure you'd fill out after you came to work at Graymalkin. Instead, I think you may have got thinner."

Erik's mental eye roll is phenomenal. "I haven't, and they will never find your body if you say that around my mother. She's already thinking about weighing me." He shudders. "I can feel it."

"She is not!" Charles laughs. He elbows Erik in the ribs. "Although, I haven't seen Edie in a while. Maybe she's changed."

"You haven't?"

Why that comes as a shock, Charles has no idea. "Not since last year when your mum left that terrifying message about your father."

Erik's parents rarely drink enough to get tipsy, which was bizarre until Erik burst into the office one day and said his father was in trouble. Charles went with him, and when they arrived, both expecting to see ambulances after Edie's hurried message pleading with Erik to come home because his father needed him desperately, they found Erik's father standing in the hall with his foot stuck in the wall about three feet above the ground. It was hard to tell who was laughing hardest, Erik's parents or the Eisenhardts. It certainly hadn't been Erik, who had been less than impressed with the scene. Charles, on the other hand, had been on cloud nine. It was a party he never wants to forget.

From the depth of Erik's scowl, the sentiment isn't shared. "I can't believe he was so bad at dancing he actually put his foot through the wall."

"Erik, you tried to click your heels and nearly knocked over an entire aisle in the grocery store."

"I was fifteen, and my gift was unstable."

"That doesn't make it better."

"You don't make it better," Erik mumbles. At Charles' raised brows, he sighs. "They'd like to see you more, you know."

"Sorry?"

Erik looks away. "My parents. They miss you. My mother won't stop pestering me about how long it's been since you came around, are you still sick, and how are you feeling... I've told her to call you herself."

"Really?" Charles feels his cheeks heat. "I knew they liked me well enough, but she really asks after me?"

"Charles." Erik gives him a disbelieving look. "My parents love you. So what that you aren't Jewish? After everything that happened, you may as well be part of the family. You took care of Ru, you took care of them, and you took care of me." Erik clears his throat. "I never thanked you for all you did. I was too stupid and angry to say it then, but-"

"Don't," Charles rasps, one hand grabbing Erik's elbow of its own volition. "All I did was drop by when I had extra time. It was no hardship. Your thanks for Ruth, however, I will accept. She got me in the 'nads with a basketball once, and no matter what she says, it was on purpose."

Erik does something complicated with his face. His mind rings with a familiar mixture of curiosity and sympathy.

"So you see," Charles continues, "once I took your sister's rage in the wobblies, the lawyer was never a question. Getting back at you would have been much harder if you were in prison."

"You haven't hit me in the balls."

"Not yet I haven't. But your time will come, my friend. Your time will come."

A happy roar comes up through the vents.

"Sounds like things are kicking off," Charles observes.

"Ready to go back?"

"We probably should."

Erik straightens from his slouch with a grunt.

"You all right, old man?" Charles asks as he makes to follow suit. Just in time to undercut him, his leg gives out, and he hits the ground hard.

"Charles!" Erik's face pops into view. "What happened?"

"Nothing,” Charles assures him bitterly, “just my leg fucking me over."

"Do you want me to-"

"Could you not talk tight now?" Charles snaps. He regrets it the moment he says it, but that fall really fucking hurt. The impact shook through his bones. He needs a moment to remember how to breathe.

Breathing means thinking, and thinking means recognizing how embarrassing this is. Damn his pride for not wanting to bring the cane. _Breaking News,_ his mind blares, _Man Fails To Stay Upright, Falls Over Like Giant Toddler._

Breaking news. Heh. Breaking. Like broken bones. The things humans get when they fall over.

Nothing feels broken this time, so this really is just humiliating.

Marvelous.

"Now you can speak."

The quip Charles was expecting doesn't come. Instead, Erik takes off in the opposite direction. His footsteps crunch as he makes for the door to the stairs. He pauses with a hand on the door. "Stay there," he orders, pointing at Charles. "Don't go anywhere. I'll be right back."

Where are you going?

Just stay where you are!

Charles groans. Who knows how long Erik will need? He lowers himself back to the roof with a sigh.

Erik better not be getting someone else. There is only so much indignity a man can take in one evening, and Charles has hit his limit.

He doesn't know how long Erik is gone, only that it's long enough for him to start nodding off. He cracks one eye open when he senses Erik's mind approaching, and to his relief, no one follows him up.

When he sees what Erik has in his hands, he does a double take.

"Is that my cane?"

"You said I could have it," Erik says, a touch defensively. "It's a few models back, but it's better than nothing."

Charles did give it to him, yes, but he had thought Erik wanted it so he could play with the metal. Why it's still in one piece- and with him- Charles can't begin to guess.

"I don't know why you have this on you, but frankly, I'm so happy to see it, I won't make you tell me."

Getting Charles to his feet takes a ridiculous amount of time. As the reason for the delay is Charles' refusal to let himself just ask Erik to haul him up, he keeps his complaints to himself.

He remembers why he didn't the cane the moment he puts his weight on it. Whoever designed the damn thing could not have intended it for the human hand. Or they did, but they designed it to hit every possible nerve in the palm.

Still better than having to be carried around by Erik. He can feel the man wanting to hover. It ought to grate, but Charles finds himself grateful instead. Perhaps it's because of Erik's gift- if anything happens with Charles' cane, Erik will probably know before he does. Erik keeps tabs on all the metal around him as a matter of course.

Maybe, he admits quietly to himself as they descend the stairs, Erik gritting mental teeth every time Charles takes a step, it's because he might want someone to treat him delicately when he has actually hurt himself.

It doesn't matter. Charles is on his own, and he isn't unhappy about that.

If anyone noticed their absence, it goes unspoken. Most people have given in and joined in the dancing, which leaves Charles and Erik spoiled for choice of seats.

Charles eases himself onto the first thing that isn't a bean bag- getting out of it again would not be pretty- and, after an impatient wave from Charles, Erik joins him. The futon is a nice one, the perfect mixture of soft and supportive. Charles could sleep on it. He might even wake up and be all right.

It isn't likely, but it's possible.

Erik is oddly fidgety beside him. He keeps throwing Charles these looks. Charles has no idea what they're supposed to communicate and trying only makes his head hurt, so he gives up in favor of watching Erik fidget.

The fidgeting gets worse when he does that. Strange.

"Erik," Charles says when Erik's leg bouncing gets so energetic the whole futon shakes with the force of it, "if there's something you want to say-"

"Charles, there you are!"

The fidgeting stops, but the look on Erik's face makes Charles wish it hadn't.

"Janos." He twists to face the man. Plastering on a smile, he pushes back the ominous threat of Erik's rapidly darkening mood. "Good to see you, my friend! Moira's kept you in good company, I hope."

That makes the man frown, but his good mood bounces back quickly. "I hoped to speak with you." Charles blinks at him. Janos sighs. "Privately, if possible."

Secondhand suspicion lances through him at the words. He knows without looking that Erik is not going to let that happen without making a scene. Charles doesn't have the strength to deal scene-making from anyone, least of all the undisputed champion.

"I'm terribly sorry," he says before his friend does something they can't be taken back, "but Erik and I are in the middle of something spatially critical. It's a telepath thing."

Erik loudly thinks the lie is a six out of ten and not Charles' best work by far.

Unaware of the biplay, Janos nods in easy understanding. "So this is the infamous Erik I have heard so much about."

Claxons, wholly Charles' this time, begin to clang.

"That depends," Erik drawls amicably. Too amicably. The claxons are ringing loud enough to break his eardrums. "What have you heard?"

Fuck. "So, Janos," Charles interrupts, "how are you enjoying the party?"

"It has been fine. But I'm still waiting for that view you promised me."

"View?" Erik echoes sharply, just as Charles lets out a nervous laugh. The other view. He forgot all about it.

Janos gives Erik a look as laden with poorly hidden hostility as the one Erik is undoubtedly giving him. "When Charles invited me, he could not stop raving about the view from the roof. Apparently, that is a sight worth seeing."

Aaand that was a blatant once over.

_Oh, fuck. Oh, fucking fuck fuck. Please, no. Please don't tell me this is going where I think it is._

"The roof, you say?" Erik sounds thoughtful. His mind sets another tone entirely. "Charles, you should have told me. We could have brought Janos up with us earlier."

Even with a finger on Erik's thoughts, Charles gets no forewarning whatsoever before his friend scooches closer. Erik presses much too close to be appropriate, the hand that pats his thigh landing too high up to be friendly.

"I don't think Charles will be going up again tonight," Erik purrs. "Getting up and down stairs with his cane is hard on him. You understand, of course."

Janos does not understand. Charles deliberately left his cane behind when he and Moira went to visit the man. There are a lot of things Charles will do for Moira. Playing the sad disabled friend to get her a couple bonus points is not on the list. It damn well isn't on anyone's list.

Leave it to Erik to undo all Charles' hard work.

"Charles? What is he talking about?" Janos is looking between them, his gorgeous face wrinkling with confusion.

The jig is up. Time to come back to reality.

Charles leans forward and reaches under the futon. His side protests the motion, but he has to flail for a second before his fingers strike metal. He straightens up, and he brings the cane with him. "It's more for the aesthetic than anything," he tries, because why not? At this point, he can't possibly make things worse. "What's an old man without a cane, after all?"

A cruel moment passes where Charles has the crazy feeling that he might have convinced Janos to stay.

Then the man's lip curls, and he takes a deliberate step back. "I think I should leave now."

"You can't! What about Moira?"

Janos pulls a face. "What about her?"

"It would be rude to leave without saying goodbye," Charles insists.

Erik chooses this moment to butt back in. "Let's not do this here."

"I don't see what would be rude about this," Janos protests.

"She might want to see you again," Charles growls. "Though I can't see why she would if you behave like this around her."

"Why," Janos asks, too loudly, "would I care about that? She's a human, and a sad little one. I came because you asked. I talked to her because you wanted me to. All of this- I did it because I'm interested in you." His eyes drop to the cane. "Was interested in you. I'm not looking for people with baggage."

In a just world, Charles would get up and sock the bastard. In this one, he has to sit and watch Janos swagger gracefully through the crowd and out the door.

Crowd.

No. Charles whips around. Behind him, Moira is standing frozen in front of all her colleagues. Her mouth is open in a perfect o of surprise. Her mind is racing, trying to keep up with the torrent of conflicting thoughts and emotions slamming through her.

Ororo is right beside her, and it's she who breaks the silence. "Moira, I-"

"Has anyone seen Ruth?" Moira asks. Her voice is high and tight. "I'd like to go home now."

A ripple goes through them, but Ruth doesn't appear.

Her brother does. Erik gets to his feet without so much as a by your leave. "I'd like to get back as well. Get your coat, and we'll go."

Charles loses track of events after that. It all turns into a blur of motion and noise around him.

This wasn't supposed to happen. It was supposed to be fun. Moira would flirt, and Janos would flirt back. Then he would leave. Moira would be sad, but only in passing. Charles would enjoy the feeling of a fling well handled.

How did he not know?

At some point, Ruth shakes his shoulder. "Time to go, old man." Charles lets her lead him to the elevator and though the lobby. None of the rush from earlier accompanies this trip, only the sense of pending self-loathing.

It isn't until he's been buckled into the front seat and Ruth is guiding them a hair too fast down the dark streets that he realizes something.

"Doesn't your foot hurt?"

"Nope."

"Why not?"

"I was faking, Charles. It was fine all along"

"Oh."

They fall back into silence. Erik wouldn't have let Charles sit in silence. He would have started scolding him the moment Charles' ass hit the seat, and he wouldn't have stopped until they got home.

"Yeah, well, I'm not Erik."

And now Charles is projecting without meaning to. Wonderful.

"Nah. You said that aloud."

Charles sighs. "Back there... That was bad, wasn't it?"

"Yep."

He waits, but she doesn't elaborate. "Is that all you're going to say?"

Ruth shrugs. "Like I said, I'm not Erik. I don't need to rub your face in your fuck ups. But he loves you, so he does." A beat passes before she adds, "For the record, though? I so told you so."

 

***

 

Sharon is a mess when Charles gets back. She fights him when Charles tries to get her to go to bed, scratching at him and lashing out with her mind. He could bear her nails if it weren't for the vicious way she sets her mind against him.

It's almost funny. Sharon Xavier, a woman whose brain is addled with her body's own unfiltered toxins, is more adept at resisting telepathic interference than anyone Charles has ever heard of. No one else has figured out how to wield telepathy against its telepath. Not even telepaths. Yet Sharon does it instinctively.

Memories flood him. The good lures in his simplistic gift despite his best efforts, his mind eager to take refuge in another's happiness, only to evaporate the moment he touches it. In its place waits the shadow of Sharon's ugliest recollections. He learns nothing from them; they are only made of emotions, not context. Self-loathing batters at him. Unending grief and hopelessness tear at him, tempting him to let his barriers down.

Charles has dealt with this before. He knows how to shore up his strength and burn through the distractions. It makes him sick to feel her recoil at him, but he presses on. Stopping short of dragging her mind into calm will only hurt her further.

She needs to rest.

Charles helps her under the covers as gently as he can. He tries not to notice how small she is, how little the blankets move with her breath. Was she always so small? Or has she lost so much weight already?

He smooths the sheet under her chin and wonders how much longer this can last.

"Charles?"

"Yes, Mum?"

She looks up at him through watery eyes. "Are you happy?"

He brushes the question aside. It doesn't merit thought. "I am," he assures her. "I love my work, and the children. And you. Having all of this makes me happy."

"Then you're a fool," she spits. "Love is not enough, Charles. It never built a bloody thing except to tear it down. It will die with you, and everything you thought you built will be destroyed with you."

Charles runs the sleeve of his shirt over her wet cheeks. "I love you, too," he promises. He presses a kiss to her forehead, and with one final touch of his gift, lulls her restless mind to sleep.

 

***

 

Erik is waiting for him outside Charles' room. He looks as exhausted as Charles feels, but he straightens up when he sees Charles. A note of determination rings through his mind.

There will be no putting him off, so Charles gathers up his own resolution. "Let's get this over with."

Inside, Charles hesitates before taking a seat on the edge of his bed. He gestures at Erik to do the same at his desk. Erik shakes his head, his mind too restless to sit.

"What were you thinking?"

"Moira asked me to set her up with someone," Charles says calmly. "Janos seemed like an inoffensive, easy way to get back in the saddle. They'd flirt a little, he'd leave, Moira would get her confidence back."

Erik pinches his nose. "You set up your vulnerable friend with a complete stranger. Did you even read his mind first?"

Charles' mouth works, but no sound comes out.

"I'll take that as a no. Damn it, Charles! You can't use your mutation as a reason to trust you if you won't use it."

"Excuse me for not wanting to commit a felony! He was obviously into her-"

"He was not!" Erik thunders. "This had nothing to do with helping Moira and everything to do with your vanity. Don't argue with me about this. If you hadn't thought Janos was interested in you, you never would have bothered hiding your cane. You deluded yourself into thinking you were doing get a favor, and not only did you fail to do that, your pride got her hurt worse than before."

Fists clenching, Charles snarls, "Since when do you care about Moira?"

Erik rolls his eyes. "I never pretended to be her friend, but I've never publicly humiliated her the way you just did."

He's right. For all their troubles getting along, Erik and Moira generally keep it quiet. They snap each other, make pithy comments when it pleases them, swap the occasional blow in practice. But they keep it clean.

As if he could read Charles' mind, Erik deflates. "You should have stayed out of it." He lets out a huff of a laugh. "Who am I kidding? You could never leave anything alone. Couldn't you have just nudged her toward Sean the way she was already leaning?"

"I did. She told me very clearly it wasn't an option."

"And you believed her? She's still a mess over that last sack of shit!"

Charles grits his teeth. "I made a mistake, Erik. One mistake. You can't seriously think I can't do this. I'm a telepath, for fuck's sake! Who knows the hearts of men better than I do?"

The handles on his bureau start to rattle. Erik's face darkens into a scarlet flush fit to match the rage flashing in his mind. "How can you be this arrogant?" he bellows. "The heart and the mind are not the same, Charles! They don’t always have the same wants. One can starve while the others flourishes. If you had the first idea of what love is, you would know that!"

Stung, Charles reaches for his own barbs. "Considering the 'love' of your life divorced you and can barely stand to see your face, you'll have to forgive me if I take your input with a pinch of salt." He forces a laugh. "I mean, Erik, you fucked things up with _Magda_. How the hell did you manage that?"

Erik's jaw flexes, fury and pain pouring off him as he whirls and stomps away. The door slams shut behind him hard enough to shake the wall.

Left alone on the inside, there is no one to witness Charles slamming his fist into the bed or the tears that follow.


	5. Chapter 5

_I want now to be close to you._

Mutations tend to manifest in the early stages of adolescence. Thirteen to fifteen year olds experience the highest manifestation rate, followed by sixteen to eighteen year olds, then ten to twelve year olds. In order to cope with the burden of panicked children with uncontrolled, often destructive or invasive, abilities, the Senate enacted Maria's Law- it came too late for the eponymous mutant who lost her life in an attempt to control her gift so she would not be held back. Now, mutant children are given IEPs which include a minimum of one school year off without penalty- taken at the family and doctors' discretion- and home tutelage provided at no expense to the family. There are loopholes, and every state has a different way to enact the provisions, but it is a start.

Charles went to school during the limbo that was mutant life post-revelation but pre-Maria's Law, as did Raven and Erik. Raven was already in control of her gift for the most part when she was school-age, and Erik, who went to a Jewish day school that already had its own basic mutant provisions, lucked out with his manifestation: being impatient to leave and pulling his parents' car to him could have been a bloody story but wound up just being an expensive one. Charles' manifestation was... not so simple.

It began with intrusive thoughts. Then it became false memories. He began seeing things in panorama, as if he were simultaneously standing the front of the room, the back, and in every row- or he would catch himself looking around the kitchen when he was in bed. Teachers began taking him aside and asking if he was all right, how were things at home, did he have anything he wanted to to them. His moods became erratic, swinging around with terrifying speed from one inexplicable extreme to another. Sleep ceased being a refuge. All he had were nightmares, but if he avoided the scenes of wordless grief at home he would only nod off at school where he would see a kaleidoscope of too much.

Charles spent nearly a year terrified that he was crazy and even more terrified that someone would find out.

Then his father's friend Kurt and Kurt's son Cain moved themselves into the mansion.

One night after the Markos took up residence, Charles was sitting in the salon doing his homework while his mother squinted at the gameshow on the telly. He was exhausted, the sentences on his English worksheet blurring into a meaningless mess, when a pulse of bloodcurdling fury jolted through him. He snapped his pencil in one fist. The sound caught his mother's attention.

"Charles?"

He sneered at the broken pencil. "Worthless."

The world turned black after that, and the next time he opened his eyes, he's in hospital. His mother was slumped in a chair beside Charles' bed. She jerked upright when he looked at her; her face was haggard and lined deeply the way it only got when she was sober. He tried to turn onto his side to look at her, but his back gave a sharp twinge at the motion.

"Be still, Charles," she ordered. "You aren't well."

Panic rose up his throat with the acidic taste of bile. "Mum?"

Reaching out, she took his hand in both if hers. Her skin was cool and dry where she wrapped her grip around him.  When she spoke, her voice was weak but kind. "You're a mutant, Charles. A telepath."

The next fifteen years were rough. He spent the year he would have been in fourth grade in a hospital undergoing exposure therapy. The regime has since been debunked as a way to teach control to psionics, but the revelation was too late for Charles. He remembers the horrible games of mental hide and seek, of being made to hear awful thoughts until he learned to block them out. Other tasks he put in boxes that stay tucked away in his psyche to gather dust. After his return to school it was back to being everywhere at once, but now his friends and classmates knew. Raven told him to stay out of her head, Magda told him he was never allowed to forget her birthday ever, Ruth was in awe, and Erik...

Erik told him he better not cheat at chess.

Having endured the deepest circle of hell Virgil kept secret from Dante- overhearing the thoughts of randy teenagers was an eternity of damnation in itself, and university was little better- Charles had decided he would make a better place for mutants by the time he was twenty. By twenty-seven, he had a plan to realize his dream. By the winter of the year he is thirty-six, his mutant sanctuary more closely resembles a summer camp for disaffected adults than the culmination of Charles' dreams

Moira is avoiding him. The other teachers are discomfited by Charles' presence. They don't want to take sides over something they don't understand, but they don't know how to deal with what they do know. It hurts- so many of them were once his students, and their unhappiness at the sight of him cuts deep- but Charles lets them circle around Moira. She will come to him when she wants to talk. He can entertain himself until she's ready.

After their fight, Erik takes to spending time with Moira. They cook dinner together some nights, and Jean, who is strangely still comfortable with Charles, says they run their lesson plans past each other before they submit them- a task Charles used to perform for both. Charles overhears them laughing in the kitchen one evening, the words too low to catch but the rumble of Erik's amused chuckle unmistakable.

It makes Charles want to hit something. He can't explain why. Only that hearing Erik make that sound on the far side of walls is wrong.

As if that weren't enough, Emma Frost takes to her mutual prep period with Erik like skin to too-tight leather. Erik doesn't discourage her. He invites her into his cramped office with him, and if Charles didn't know better he would agree with the school's rumor mill that the two of them are doing their own kind of calisthenics. Not that Charles is spying on them. He just knows his friend. Erik would never do that in his office. Absolutely not during school hours.

Sure, Emma has a striking physical mutation, which Erik has an appreciation for. And, yes, her telepathy is strong. Not as strong as Charles', but still. She could deal some hefty damage if she wanted. Then there's the fact that she's fit. Charles can't stand her, but he can admit to following the sway of her hips as she saunters away. Her face is all right, if he had to say. Maybe even cute in the right light.

Raven observes to him over lunch one afternoon that Erik and Emma would make a cute couple, and Charles suddenly finds he isn’t that hungry after all. PB&J is too American for his taste anyway.

The only bright light is Sebastian. Charles had thought the man would slink away after being rejected at the party, but he shows up in the study one night with a muffin in one hand and a cuppa in the other. His mind is as unpleasant as always, but Charles is happy for company. If he stops obsessing about the sickening swirl of it, he can appreciate the singularity of Shaw's mind. That makes it a type of beautiful, surely. Valuable, at the very least.

Charles doesn't quite have it in him to invite Sebastian to go for grocery runs with him, so he is back doing those himself when he discovers Janos' little shop is gone.

"I don't know what happened with him," his cashier explains as she considers the four bottle of whey protein and whether they merit bags. "One day he was there, and the next, he was gone. No notice or anything. It was pretty rude, if you ask me. Even though he was pretty."

Charles can only be glad. He had been dreading his grocery rotation exactly because he hadn't wanted to deal with the awkwardness of seeing Janos.

The winter dance arrives just in time. It's a silly thing, just an excuse for the girls to do their hair and introduce the boys to cummerbunds, but the teachers inevitably get dragged into the dancing.

Charles briefly reconsiders attending, but Logan pops his head in and explains in no uncertain terms that if Charles doesn't show up on his own, Logan will drag him there. So Charles fishes out his traditional winter dance suit and resigns himself to an evening of watching his students awkwardly try to hit on each other.

It goes better than he had dared to hope. Jean spots him hovering by the doors to the transformed Danger Room and tows him inside. Darwin is setting up the ridiculous snow thrones where he's going to spend most of the evening photographing friends and couples. He catches Charles looking and waves him over.

"Hey, Professor," he says, throwing Charles one of his wide smiles. "I can't believe you still have that thing."

By "that thing", he means Charles' suit. Cut to resemble a zootsuit, Charles' baby blue "snow suit" (as in, this is the closest Charles is going to get to that frigid abomination) is an icon. It took Raven and him a week to sew on the fake icicles and glue the sequins into place. The youngest children think it's great, and the older ones either agree or can shove their unhappy teenage disaffection up their arses.

"You're just upset you don't have one of your own," Charles sniffs, and Darwin barks a laugh.

"Damn. How'd you know? Been reading my mind again, have you?" The question is friendly, Charles' former student teasing him about a well-documented bad habit, but it's the warmth of Darwin's regard twined with the question that makes Charles return his smile. It strikes him sometimes how lucky he is. Just by letting them in, he has become a de facto parent to tens of children. What parent can claim to have a had a hand in shaping so many lives?

Some leave feeling Charles is a fool. Others set out to do in other places as Charles did here. Then there are the ones who regard him with a mixture of exasperation and fondness- Darwin is chief among those. He has grown impeccably into himself. His gentle spirit is at peace with itself now; it found its place in the world, a niche where it is safe and cherished as it always should have been.

Charles doesn't realize he's tearing up until Darwin's eyes widen and alarms clang through his mind. "Oh, shit. I didn't mean it like that, Prof. Don't cry. I don't know what to about this. Where're the tissues-" Giving up his search, Darwin simply puts his arms around Charles in a hug.

"It's fine," Charles tells his shoulder, wrapping his arms around the younger man in return. "I was just caught up in a memory of the boy I found at that facility. He was so frightened, so alone. But look at you now! You've come such a long way, my boy. I couldn't be prouder of you."

Their overemotional reunion is cut short, in typical fashion, by a grouchy Summers.

Alex stomps over and immediately demands, "Dar! Who has nicer eyes: me or Scott?"

"Scott or me," Charles corrects automatically, stepping out of Darwin's embrace. Both boys throw him twin looks of disappointment. Charles beams at them in return. He is a teacher in his off hours as much as the ones he spends trapped in a blazer. "And for the record, Scott does. You have the look of a boy who spent most of his time in school mooning over his best friend instead of learning."

Alex's indignant squawking follows him nearly as far as Darwin's laughter.

Moving through the slowly-filling room, Charles catches sight of Moira as she helps Logan unload food onto the refreshments table. Every year before this, Charles and Moira came together. She has an equally silly fluffy white dress to match Charles' suit, which she would don with tolerance born of love. This year, she's wearing a long, dark dress that fits her snugly. Charles makes to move on lest he make things more uncomfortable, but she looks up just in time to catch him.

A long moment passes where they just hold each other's eyes. Guilt pounds in Charles' ears. The distance between them is his fault. He put that haunted look on Moira's face.

She blinks, and Charles is freed. His heart is still beating too fast, but the spinning feeling of shame quiets.

 _Hey._ Moira's voice is distant. Not hostile, just removed. _Give me time, all right?_

He doesn't reply, but she doesn't expect one. Logan gives her the next set of marching instructions, and the two move on.

Charles wanders around aimlessly until the first couple comes in. Ilyana and Kitty are hand in hand and giddy with excitement as they totter in on their high heels. Kitty promptly releases her girlfriend and stomps over to throw her arms around Charles in a hug that threatens to knock them both over. Behind her back, Ilyana sends Charles a look that says she is happy to see him but no way is she taking the risk. The two move on quickly, and Charles slides comfortably into his role of embarrassing father figure as he greets the students now flowing freely into the room.

Alison is in charge of the music, a job she takes to with gusto. The students are all happy to hit the floor and take the chance to show off. Some are undeniably better than others, but the mass of minds gathered together is a knot of joy. A few are self-conscious, but the feeling melts to the backs of their minds as their friends move through poor attempts at doing the worm, or folksy two-steps.

Temporarily done taking photos, Alex and Darwin are swaying idly together. Darwin has an arm tucked over Alex's shoulders; Alex is leaning into the taller boy without a hint of hesitation.

Watching them be so at peace with each other makes Charles' heart clench. It was a long, bumpy road that brought them together. They spent so long seeing their own fears in each other, Charles had feared they would never find their way to each other. Yet here they are. Alex isn't a walking train wreck anymore; his mind is relaxed, his affection plain on his face when he tilts his head to press a kiss to Darwin's cheek. Darwin himself has grown leaps and bounds. Befriending Alex alone did wonders for him- the brash way Alex has of talking gave his words more weight in Darwin's mind. When Alex said Darwin was amazing, he said so because that was what he thought. Not because he expected anything. And Darwin opened up under the praise.

Charles is always happy when his students find balance, but watching Alex and Darwin together brings a lump of envy into his throat. He will never have what they have, what Kitty and Ilyana have. He doesn't resent it- on the contrary, he is proud to have his life's work so deeply entwined in his daily life. The students truly do come to feel like his children. What more could he want? A partner would only suffer neglect if he tried. Besides, he has always known he would do better without the usual trappings of love. Everything he could want, he already has. Love would ask him to give up more than he could possibly gain.

It's while he is meditating on this that someone joins him against her wall. To his surprise, Emma's mind has let down a number of its walls, and when he reaches out with his gift, he finds her mind cold but not unwelcoming.

"You were right," she announces. "We're telepaths. We ought to stick together."

"What changed your mind?" Charles asks, curious.

"More like who. You have quite a friend in Lehnsherr, Xavier. I must admit it took me by surprise. He didn't strike me as the Best Friends Forever sort, but he's quick to defend you. Quicker than you deserve."

Erik is far from faultless, but Charles can admit his friend's support often feels unfounded. Charles puts his foot in it more often than he cares to admit, for which Erik balls him out unfailingly. Yet afterwards, when Charles has had time to think and make amends if he can, Erik is the first to stand at his side, even when they haven’t made up.

Forgiveness, he thinks as he watches his friend square off with Logan by the punch bowl, may have become too reliable. Charles knows it will be his every time. No matter how careless he is, Erik will always come back to him if Charles asks.

Emma delicately clears her throat. "Something to think about. Now, if you'll excuse me, I think someone should intervene before Erik magnetizes Howlett to the ceiling."

With that, she flips her hair over her shoulder and swans away.

Charles watches her go. That Erik thinks highly of him warms him, but the fear that coalesces in the pit of his stomach at the sight of Emma pulling Erik away with a gentle hand on his arm is a block of ice too thick and cold to melt. That used to be him. He was Erik's external voice of reason.

He needs a drink.

 

***

 

"I can't believe you still wear that ugly thing."

Raven plops down on the floor next to him with a sigh as Irene, with a hand from Charles, does the same on his other side. Both women are disheveled and panting, their clothes askew from the energetic cavorting Raven had them doing moments earlier.

Resisting the urge to poke his sister with his cane, Charles turns to Irene for help.

"Sorry, McQueen," she says, not apologetic in the least, "but my wife has a point."

He never should have used his gift to show her the outfit. "Are you sure you don't want to side with your employer?" Charles asks.

"Are you sure you can find another mutant economics teacher?" Irene counters.

No, he is not. Irene appearing when she did was more good fortune than Charles can expect to see ever again.

He sighs and admits Irene is too valuable to fire for having poor taste in menswear. It gets him an undignified snort from Raven, who has been staring hard at the dancers, and a conciliatory pat on the shoulder from his sister in law. His skin prickles unpleasantly at the touch, which he pushes from his mind in favor of searching out the focus of Raven's attention. All he finds is a sea of giddy dancers, but with the lights down low, his eyesight can't compare to Raven's.

They keep on like that, peering into the human morass from the far wall, until Irene asks what has their attention.

Luckily, Raven answers first. "Erik's dancing."

"Erik dances all the time," Charles corrects.

Shaking her head, Raven directs Charles to the spot across the room where Erik and Emma are swaying together. Irene declines his offer to show her psychically, which he can't say he's sorry for.

"Not like that he doesn't," Raven says pointlessly. "How long has it been since Erik danced with a partner? He doesn't look rusty at all."

More than three years, Charles recalls with a sinking feeling. The last time was at mutant prom when he and Magda were just beginning to quarrel. Before he can remember how to make the words come out, Irene pipes up. Charles hears her ask Raven something, hears his sister protest, then Raven is gone.

Erik spins Emma, the other telepath's amusement nearly audible as her shoulders shake with mirth.

So this is why she decided to make nice. Charles and Erik are good friends. It would be uncomfortable for Erik, who would never consider "she won't let me read her mind" a worthy objection from Charges, if Charles and Emma were at odds. And if Erik is uncomfortable, Emma would be uncomfortable.

Irene tugs sharply on Charles' jacket. When he turns to her, he immediately senses that she has been trying to get his attention for a while.

"Pay attention, Charles," she warns.

"I am!"

"Not right now. To _him,_ Charles. Pay attention to Erik."

Something about the way she says it fills him with dread. "Did you have a vision? Is everything all right?"

She gives him a look that says if she could, she would box his ears. "Don't worry about what I know. You just focus on Erik, all right?"

He nods just as Raven returns. "I got you your punch," she announces sourly.

Irene smiles sweetly at her but refuses to take the cup, instead asking Raven to help her back to their room. They argue, but Charles tunes them out.

The song ends, and Erik and Emma move away from each other. Finally.

Another starts up, this one a top twenties pop hit Charles recognizes. It's silly and makes more than a few people groan, but Dazzler shrugs the protests off. She and Jubilee, who joined her at the makeshift turntable, crank up the volume.

Charles winds up watching Angel lead a group in something approaching a cohesive dance until a familiar ginger head pops into view.

For the second time in the night, Erik isn't dancing alone. He has a disbelieving Moira at his side; her skepticism is clear in the wide berth she gives him. But Erik doesn't provoke her. He simply joins in with the part of the crowd where everyone is doing their own thing. Moira watches him motionlessly for a long moment, then seems to shake her reluctance off as she steps in to join him.

After years of Charles begging and trying to broker peace between them, all it took to get his best friends to stop snapping at each other was for Charles to embarrass Moira in front of everyone she works with. Who knew?

The song goes on and eventually ends, and a smiling Erik and Moira shuffle off to the side. As they do, Erik's head swings up. He locks immediately onto Charles, and the bright expression on his face smooths into something softer. Then Emma appears, and Erik turns away.

Charles isn't sad when the dance ends.

 

***

 

Lunch with Magda arrives the week after. Charles spends an absurd amount of time getting ready. He can't be too casual in case she comes dressed up- or worse, only shows up to yell at him. No sense getting yelled at in discomfort. He can't be too formal either, though. This isn't an actual date, and he doesn't want to risk alienating her if she shows up dressed down. He finds an uneasy middle ground in a blazer and pressed trousers, which he resists the urge to fiddle with as he waits outside the pre-chosen coffee shop.

When Magda shows up long, cold minutes later, Charles almost doesn't recognize her. Her thick hair is cut short, her sharp dress clothes gone in favor of a colorful dress that blows around her ankles as she makes her way over. Even her mind is different. The discordant twang of sustained unhappiness is gone. Charles can feel her natural intellect and the rapid shifting of her thoughts now. She isn't fully at ease at the moment, but she isn't actively upset.

"Charles? Charles! It's so good to see you." She offers him a wide smile.

That more than anything gives him the courage to stand up and return her tentative kiss to his cheek.

"You look incredible," he tells her as they pull apart.

She ducks her head, but her mouth quirks into a smile. "I was ready for a change. Not wearing a suit on my day off seemed like a good way to start." She hesitates, pulling her lip between her teeth as she thinks. "You didn't tell Erik about this, did you?" Charles asks, hoping the question eating at him is doing the same to her.

Magda shakes her head. "No, I thought it would be for the best if he didn't know yet. It would only upset him."

Charles agrees, and they make their way inside in comfortable silence. The heat is up indoors, which makes him sigh in relief as they get in line. His hands are stiff from the cold, his knees creaking unpleasantly as they warm up again.

They order separately then grab a table in the far corner near a vent. Charles manfully resists the urge to sit on the thing, settling instead for holding his too hot coffee.

Magda slides her hands around her cup and grimaces. "Sorry to have kept you waiting. I ran into traffic in the Bronx, and I didn't have your cell number."

"It's fine," Charles assures her, waving aside her guilty look. Even without his gift, he would know it was unintentional. Magda has never been one to obfuscate or punish someone like that.

She shakes her head. "No, it isn't. I know how the cold weather gets to you. I should have told you to just go inside if I wasn't here."

"You were worried about what you'd do when you saw me."

"How-" She frowns. "Your mutation, of course. I always forget."

This time, Charles is the one shaking his head. "You do, but that's not how I knew." At her skeptical look, he elaborates. "I know you, Magda. We grew up together. You're always thinking about other people, how what you do affects them. It's a less common trait than you'd think."

The smile that curves her lips is soft and matches the warmth in her mind. "You're being too kind. I had no idea you saw me like that. You were always more Erik's friend than mine."

"Because you were so intimidating!" Charles chuckles. "Erik's flaws were obvious, but you were so together. You handled Erik, you got good grades, you were pretty... I didn't want to bother you."

She blinks, obviously taken aback. In her mind, she was nothing of the sort. Charles makes a mental note to show her his memories of her from when they were children. Later, though. He called her up for another matter entirely.

"It's Erik, isn't it?" she guesses.

Of course she knows. "It's more like me and Erik-" She tenses. "Or just me, I suppose. I realize it's unfair to ask you about this, but you're the only person I know who can answer me. Am I... Am I not a good person?"

Whatever she was expecting, that was not it. "What?"

"Erik and I keep fighting," Charles says, eyes dropping to his cup. "And the more we do, the more I find myself in the wrong. He's always telling me off these days. I don't think we can go a month without a major argument. So I have wonder if it's me. Am I doing this?"

He sees her hand before it touches his. Her nails, he notices inanely, are the same shade of pink she's worn for years.

"Oh, Charles," she sighs. "You're not a bad person." Drawing back, she takes a sip of her own drink. "Honestly, I think the problem is you're spread too thin."

"Pardon?"

"You do a lot, Charles. You run a school, you teach at your school, you clean up after your students, you clean up after the staff... And you do it all in poor health. It's a lot to handle, and I don't think I've ever heard of you taking any me time off."

"But I love the school," he splutters

"Which is why you'll listen when I tell you to take a step back." Magda turns stern eyes on him. "Do something for yourself. You'll be happier if you do, and a happy headmaster is good for everyone."

Charles chews his lip, thinking hard. "Could having lunch with you count?"

"Why would you want that?"

"It gets me out of the school, and I get to see a friend I haven't seen in far too long. It would make me very happy. That is, if you're amenable."

She smiles at him. "You know what? I think I'd like that. HaShem help me, but I've missed you."

They talk about lighter things than that, the tension that was thick between them during the divorce going unmentioned but silently acknowledged, and when they part, she gently kisses his cheek before wishing him well and dashing for her car. He gets into his and sits idling on the shoulder until the air coming from the vents isn't frigid and his ankle remembers how to flex.

He feels lighter when they get back, almost giddy with relief at Magda's regained friendship. Nothing, he knows, can pop his bubble of good vibes. Nothing at all.

As he makes his way through the school to his room, he makes the mistake of peering through an open classroom door and catches sight of the teachers inside. Erik and Emma are talking in low voices, their chairs pushed close together as they look over a sheet of paper. There is no reason for them to be so close their arms press together like that.

No reason at all.

 

***

 

The medication can only do so much. Charles knows this. He also knows upping the dosage will get him more relief- at a price. Yet the opioids already took his alcohol from him. What greater price could be worry about paying?

His intellect wavers at a hundred milligrams.

At two hundred, it tucks tail and flees.

On a Sunday afternoon in mid-February, Charles takes two hundred and an extra fifty with his tea, climbs back into bed, and falls into the shifting gray of synthetic poppy. He is deep in the space between his body and the pain when someone knocks on his skull.

_Nngh._

"Professor, are you up?" The gray shifts at the sound, and with it, Charles. "Professor! Hey, Prof, you listening?"

Groaning, Charles pushes the gray to the side. He needs a moment to remember which way is up and which is down, then another to sort out which end of him has his face. "Hello?" he calls, voice slippery in his mouth.

"It's Alex," the voice answers. "We're having a school snow day downstairs. The kids would love it if you came."

Snow days. School snow days. He knows what those are. Yes, he does.

"Be right there!"

Did he mean to say that?

Ah, well. Too late.

Sometime later, Charles is settled downstairs on one of the sofas with a blanket wrapped snugly around him. Sebastian has the cushion next to him. None of the other adults will sit next to Charles. They keep giving him funny looks.

But not Sebastian, so Charles has one friend.

The children are watching a film Charles can't place. It has lots of color, though. Too much color. A painful amount of color.

He closes his eyes against it for a moment, then wakes up to a jolt of pain in his gut.

"Fucking- bollocks," he wheezes, curving his body away. "What in the fuck?"

A little voice makes an "eep!" noise, and a moment later, the pain eases.

Charles opens his eyes in search of the source of the new pain and finds himself looking into the wide yellow eyes of his foster nephew. Kurt has sat himself on Charles' lap. He's a small, bony child, which normally would not bother Charles, but the little hand pressing into his gut is another matter.

Kurt averts his eyes. "Sorry, Uncle Charles."

Swallowing a groan, Charles adjusts the boy's hand so it rests in his hand and no longer digs into his gut. "It's fine," he assures the boy. A couple inches lower, though, and that would not have been the case.

"Hardly," Sebastian's voice interjects smoothly. "You aren't a playground, Charles. And with your condition, it would best if you didn't let the children treat you so roughly."

"I think I can decide for myself what would be best for my 'condition'," Charles says waspishly. He gives his subordinate a look over Kurt's head.

"What condition?" Kurt asks, voice warbling.

Charles strokes a hand through his nephew's thick mop of navy hair. "Nothing serious, darling. You won't get away from me that easily."

The boy's mind takes the assurance and lets it sooth him. Someday it won't be so easy, but for now, all Charles has to do to comfort him is let Kurt arrange himself on his lap and lay his head against Charles' shoulder. Kurt nods off not long after, wrapped warmly as he is in Charles' blanket.

Glancing around, Charles realizes the rest of the children have left, and the adults are just hanging out. They have beers and wine glasses spread thickly among them.

Erik is already looking at him when Charles catches sight of him. Sat on one of the child-sized chairs, Erik looks even bigger than he naturally is. His jaw is clenched hard, the lines around his eyes carved deep. Next to him, Emma is leaning over her adult chair and whispering something in his ear, which Erik acknowledges with an occasional nod but otherwise listens stony-faced. His mind is quiet, but Charles can hear the whir of it moving, his friend's thoughts shifting rapidly under the superficial calm.

What are you thinking? Charles wonders. Why do you look at me like that?

He doesn't let Erik hear the thoughts, but he wants to. He wants his best friend back. His fingers ache with the urge to take Erik by the arm and point out a student's progress. His tongue itches to ask what Erik thinks of the House rejecting on its own the latest anti-mutant bill. He stumbles over his own gift, its fingers reaching instinctively for Erik. It is as thrown by the loss as Charles himself.

The calm is too fragile for Charles to risk breaking it clumsily. Erik has to be the one to bridge the gap.

"So, Charles," Sebastian says out of nowhere. Everyone looks up, startled, at the sound. "You must tell me where you got such a palette. I don't think I've seen such an impressive liquor cabinet in years."

Erik tenses further, but Charles laughs. "You'll have to thank my mother for that," he says easily. "My father was a teetotaler, you see, so it fell to her to teach me. A more discerning palette you won't find west of the Atlantic than hers."

Sebastian nods knowingly. "Mothers are a blessing, to be sure. Tell me- did yours pass on a talent for parlor games as well?"

"Pardon?"

"I thought it might be a bit of fun," Sebastian says, mind turning cool even as the uncanny lurching grows more unsettling. "Things have been so gloomy around here, what with the winter and that business with the Spaniard. We could all use a few friendly rounds of charades to celebrate the spring, eh?"

To Charles' surprise, Moira is the first to agree. The others fall in quickly. Even Erik agrees to join in after Frost prods him, though his mind prickles with inexplicable resentment.

Partnering up fills Charles with a new sense of self-loathing. Erik has usually been his partner, and when he couldn't, Moira always stepped in. She makes a magnificent partner, probably superior to Erik. But both are denied to Charles. Erik and Emma clearly want to stick together, and Moira is getting up to join Angel on the piano bench.

When Sebastian asks to be his partner, as if anyone else would deign to be, Charles is nothing but grateful.

So grateful, in fact, he thinks nothing of taking the beer Sebastian holds out. His fingers fumble to get the top off, but he manages it before the shouting about the rules and whether they should get the cards reaches its height.

They sort it out, and the cards appear out of nowhere. It's the adult deck, Angel declares when the first card makes her burst into giggles.

"I better get Kurt to bed," Charles whispers to Sebastian, indicating the bundle of miraculously sound asleep toddler in his arms. "Could you hold the bottle for me?"

Sebastian waves him on, and Charles picks his way out of room on shaky legs. Kurt says nothing, merely snuggles closer.

 _Well, he's no Xavier,_ Charles decides as they head to the boy's room. Fortunately for him. No Xavier sleeps this peacefully.

It isn't until after he's tucked Kurt into bed and come back out that he notices Erik standing at the top of the stairs, hands in pockets.

"Christ, Erik!" he splutters, heart pounding. "How long have you been there?"

"You need to keep your eyes open," Erik cautions.

"Obviously."

"I don't mean here."

Charles hasn't missed the cryptic discussions with Erik. His head already hurts. "Please just get to the point."

Erik hesitates, and for a moment, Charles thinks he's going to be dismissed. Instead, Erik draws himself up and declares, "You need to be careful around Shaw."

"Lest he 'Yes, Charles,' me into giving him things. I remember."

"Charles, please, for once in your life, listen to me-"

"Excuse me?"

"Would you just listen? Shaw is dangerous. You shouldn't spend more time around him than you must."

Charles deflates. "I've heard that before."

"Then will you stop encouraging him?"

"I wasn't talking about Shaw."

Erik's brow wrinkles. "You weren't- What are you talking about?"

Closing the space between them, Charles steps up to Erik. "I'm talking about you. You joined a gang, my friend- a gang that convinced you to do rather a lot of dangerous things. People told me to cut you out of my life because of it."

"You never said."

"Why would I?" Charles asks. He's had this conversation with Erik in his head a million times, but it never went like this. It was always noble. Charles was Erik's steadfast friend, loyal in the face of adversity. It never occurred to him that it could be used to cut. "You're angry enough as it is. I'm only telling you now so you don't act surprised when I tell you to fuck off about Sebastian."

"This is different-"

"It is. I knew you committed those crimes. So unless you have proof of something Shaw has actually done, fuck off, Erik."

Done with this conversation- done with Erik, who has no right to ignore him for weeks then come out of the woodwork just to chastise him- Charles pushes past Erik and returns to Sebastian ready to blow Erik and Emma out of the water. His partner doesn't comment, though Charles senses the man notices his mood has taken a turn for the better.

He and Sebastian make a killing. The others quickly cry psionic foul, but Emma is forced to concede that Charles' gift has nothing today with it. Charles and Sebastian just have chemistry. Saved from disqualification, Charles instead finds himself- along with Sebastian- on the business end of sporting jibes.

Jibes which, while fun at first. Take a sharp turn for the deliberately cruel when Erik joins in. Emma adds her own frosty calls to arms, and only Sebastian's calmness keeps Charles from doing something regrettable.

Until someone wanders into the crossfire.

Charles doesn't even remember what Hank said. It was nothing, really. Charles' indignation was born of Erik's uncharitable remarks and Emma's little titters rather than the content of Hank's actual words, but in the moment, with his head pounding and his body aching, the reluctant attempt at teasing Charles about his tendency to sit on the sidelines with the girls when the guys do the heavy lifting isn't beneath his ire one bit.

"You realize the point of charades is not to talk, right?" Charles growls. "But it figures you can't go two minutes without flapping your yap, Beast."

The room falls silent, and Charles knows he's misstepped. Hurt is pouring off Hank. It just can't compare to the tidal waves of Charles' own pain.

Alex says something in a voice that is forcibly light, and Hank, followed by the rest of the staff, leaves.

Sebastian is among them.

Erik is not.

"What," he begins, deadly quiet, "the hell was that?"

Charles' leg throbs. "Go away."

"No."

"Don't test me right now, Erik. Go."

Instead, Erik takes a step closer. "That boy adores you! HaShem only knows why, but he thinks the world of you. Why would you say that to him?"

"I don't have to explain myself to you," Charles snaps. His chest hurts. He wants to leave, but he can't. Erik would only catch him and get angrier still.

"No, but you do owe Hank an explanation."

"Then you owe me one as well!"

"Pardon?"

"You started this, Erik. You and Emma both. I wanted to have fun," Charles says, voice cracking. "I was having fun until the tennis you started in on me. You were one step away from calling me a cripple. Even Moira thought you were overdoing it, and if she didn't approve, why did you keep going?" A muscle in Erik's jaw twitches, but he says nothing. Charles' hands clench. "I see. So you do hate me. Very well."

"That isn't it."

"If you say so." It wouldn't be so bad if Erik said he did. Right now, with Hank's shuttered eyes clear in his memory, Charles hates himself.

Erik refuses to say anything more one way or the other on hating him. Instead he asks, "Why would you take it out on Hank of all people? You could have said something to us. I expect better from you, Charles."

"Fuck you," Charles snaps, rising to his feet. "You can take your expectations and shove them up your arse, you hypocrite."

He leaves.

That night, his mother is fussier than usual. Charles ends up yelling at her, and she calls him Brian and begs him to leave her alone. The wine is hers, and so is their boy.

When he finally gets to bed, even the sleeping pills don't knock him out.

 

***

 

The next morning, Charles slinks down to the labs first thing and apologizes to Hank. He feels like the lowest of the low at the way Hank flinches at the sight of him.

Charles swore no child would ever have cause to fear him, or anyone else in the mansion.

Hank accepts his apology, but as he retreats, Charles can't help doubting the boy could ever not.

All day, Hank goes out of his way to show there are no hard feelings between them, but there are. He just isn't the one harboring them. The others are doing it for him.

The only bright spot in the weeks that follow is Magda. They meet in various coffee shops and holes in the wall, where they discuss everything from missing flowers to Magda's new boss, and Charles can only marvel at how much life can be packed into such a delicate woman.

It really is no surprise she and Erik were drawn to each other. They both inhabit their emotions in a way people tend not to allow themselves to do. Magda sinks into her rage without relish or hesitation. She pulls her joy into her skin and lets it flow out of it again without recrimination. She doesn't apologize for having strong feelings. She doesn't try to justify them. She simply feels.

Charles loves her dearly for it. He doesn't know what he thought he saw in Janos that ever seemed like friendship. Magda encourages Charles to use his gift around her; she smiles when they share a happy memory and insists it's better for being shared.

In return, Charles does what he can to help relieve the stress Magda carries in a knot across her forehead. She loves her job at the law office, but the stress burrows into her head. Charles lets her talk out what she can and uses his gift to numb the rest. He never tells her that's what he does, but on the days she has it worst, she always kisses his temple before she leaves.

 

***

 

Charles gets home from a weekend lunch date in the best mood he's had in ages. Magda had a DUI story that didn't end in tragedy but did involve a number of farmers, a goat, and three of those corn harvester machines. The food was excellent, and Charles is getting ready for an afternoon nap when a burst of fear ratchets through him. Distantly, he hears the sound of someone calling his name. The fear pounding through him drowns the voice out until, a long moment later, Moira bursts into his room.

"Charles!" she gasps. Panting hard, she leans a hand on the wall and waves at the door. "You have to- help! Erik and Shaw- fighting- Shaw's room."

"What? Why?"

"No time! Just go! Before they- God, before they do something stupid."

Brain scrambling, Charles feels himself nod. He only just notices the red tinge to Moira's eyes. "Moira? Are you all right? Don't tell me you got caught between them-"

She shakes her head sharply. "I'm fine. Now go!"

He does, but not without telling her to feel free to catch her breath in his room. She waves him on, but until he hears something break or someone else get into it, his time is his. Once he's certain Moira will be fine, he grabs his cane and heads for Shaw's room.

Everyone, stay when you are, he tells the teachers. This may be nothing, but until I know for sure, consider this a hold in place.

Focusing back on the fight he's about to interrupt, Charles prepares himself for what he might have to do. The first order of shutting them down is pulling his gift in tight- he has to be untouchable. Unflinching. Fights between humans are bad enough; mutant fights have incalculable destructive power. Erik and Shaw could each easily level the house. Charles cannot afford to hesitate. His gift must be ready at hand. It is a weapon, and he is prepared to use it as such.

_Dammit, Erik. What have you gotten into now?_

He hears them before he sees them. Erik's voice is unmistakable, fury straining it as he shouts. His anger is clear even if the words are not. Shaw's voice is quieter, but there is anger in it, too. The man is usually jovial, but his voice is sharp as he hisses his own rage.

Charles doesn't care.

When he walks in, Erik is snarling.

"- put this tripe in their heads. These are children, you bastard!"

Sebastian motions for him to calm down. "Come on, Lehnsherr. You agree with me! I know you do."

Even pressed flat to the inside of his skull, Charles' gift senses Erik's rage.

Before either can stop him, Charles steps between them. "Gentlemen. What seems to be the problem?"

Erik, who likely expected Charles to show up, doesn't hesitate. Without looking away from Shaw, he thrusts a sheet of paper at Charles. "See for yourself."

Charles does. Spelled out in twelve-point font is one of the many documents from mutant supremacist organizations. It falls short of a true manifesto, but the intent is clear.

_Fuck._

"I see." Neither man moves. "Sebastian, you and I are going to have a talk. Erik, I don't care where you go. Just go somewhere and wait for me. I will see you later." Erik frowns, opens his mouth to object. "Later, Erik."

Mouth snapping shut, Erik storms out.

Charles rounds on Sebastian. "Mr. Shaw, you're an intelligent man. You know this school does not condone this type of thinking."

"I can explain."

"Please do."

Sebastian raises his chin. "I'm teaching them to think critically. They will be confronted with this sort of rhetoric in the real world-"

"The real world?" Charles echoes. "This is the real world, Mr. Shaw. They watch the same TV, the same movies, as everyone else. They meet bigots when they go on field trips. They and their friends get kicked out of their homes. So let me assure you, Mr. Shaw, my children are not removed from reality."

Flicking through Sebastian's ugly whirling mind, Charles finds what he was looking for easily. "I see you were passing this out to third years. Ten-year-olds don't need to hear find and replace versions of human supremacy. They need love and affirmation. Support."

"You're not listening," She s protests. "What greater affirmation could there be than this?"

Charles smiles. "I find telling repeatedly telling them they are good and wonderful for all they are works wonders. As for not listening... to the lies you'd like to pour in my ear, no. But your mind, sir, is another matter."

"This is illegal-"

"Oh, dear. What will you do? Call the police?" He tips his head. "I think not."

Raising his hands, he takes hold of Shaw's head, thumbs settling firmly over the man's temples.

Giant walls spring up to keep him out. Charles bats them aside. He is no amateur to be dissuaded by foolish shows of force. His gift is force itself, the hammer with which Charles could fell nations.

One pathetic man's mind is nothing to him.

Emma Frost's touch is everywhere. Diamonds and ice coat the psychic walls- they present hardly a moment's deterrent. Hit them the right way, and both will shatter.

Flexing a mental fist around his gift, Charles steps into the swing and feels the barrier disintegrate.

He finds the memories he needs easily. Shaw tried to bury them, but minds are Pavlovian creatures. They associate what they see with what they know, and they recollect whether people want them to or not. Shaw knows what Charles wants, and his mind can't help but reveal the prize inside.

A smattering of memories assaults him when he touches the bundle. Shaw, needing a new way to recruit mutants to fill the ranks of his "association", desperate for a legitimate cover, seeing the school in a fluff piece on the morning news. Emma, his right hand, suggesting they infiltrate it. Janos volunteering to gather information from the outside- everyone knows a shut-in like Xavier will be desperate to talk shop. A red-skinned man Shaw thinks of as Azazel vetoing the plan. He gives no reasons, simply says they would do better not to do this. Shaw laughing at how easily they got in, then wondering if Emma double-crossed them.

Marveling at the fact that his greatest concerns, Charles and Erik, were not the united front they presented so convincingly. Recognizing Erik from the trial years ago. Pitying Charles for living forever weakened and vulnerable.

Pulling free, Charles looks up into Shaw's cold eyes. "Save your pity for someone in need of it," he advises. "Yourself, for one."

Shaw lifts his brows.

Charles bares his teeth. "You defiled the sanctity of this school with this shite. You spouted hateful filth in a place of respite." He stops, fury pounding in his temples. "I can't simply let you go, I'm afraid. We both know you have a touch too much influence over the police to simply entrust you to them."

"What will you do, Xavier? Kill me?" Shaw barks a laugh. "You don't have the balls."

"Corpses can't suffer, Mr. Shaw. You have to live to do that- though if there is a hell, I'm sure your twisted soul will find itself there."

Lifting a hand to his own temple, Charles reaches for a specific gear in Shaw's mind and yanks.

The man crumples to the floor, unconscious. Nudging his body with a toe in distaste, Charles orders, "Stay the hell out of my school."

He has to contact the police, if only to have someone take care of the mess. He makes his plans for how to avoid mentioning Erik as he trudges back to his office. By the time he gets there, he is ready to make the call and deal with the fallout.

 

***

 

Erik is lying supine on the floor in Cerebro's room when Charles finds him. Charles sits down on the floor beside him, close enough to feel the heat coming off his friend. With the winter chill in the air and his jacket back inside, Erik is the only source of warmth in the room. "I like it in here," Erik says before Charles can ask. "The metal feels more alive."

Charles accepts that. "Have I ever told you how strange your gift is? Your mind perceives the world wholly differently from everyone else's, and even my gift can't make sense of it. I can only spectate."

"Are you trying to be nice or making fun of me? I can't tell."

"I'm giving you a compliment, you ass." Charles shoves Erik's bent knees. "Don't be a jerk."

"I can try. If I must."

"You must." Charles pats Erik's belly. It's an odd habit, one so old he can't remember starting. Sobering, he says, "Shaw's gone."

Erik stops squirming. "Really?"

Sinking onto his back, Charles sighs. Calling the police and sorting out the fact that Charles was the victim not the perpetrator was a pain in the neck, and he can only be glad it's done. He has to give a statement tomorrow, but he can handle that. Shaw will regain his mutation in a few days, but he is human for the moment. "You were right about him. I wish I'd never hired him. But I did, and the children suffered for it."

Erik nods thoughtfully. A moment later, Charles gets hauled over. He cries out, but by then Erik is done. Charles is settled on his side with his head on Erik's chest. They used to lay like this as children when Charles' headaches kept him indoors.

"Yes, the children got hurt," Erik sighs, closing his arm around Charles, "and you should have listened to me. But it isn't in your nature to be that calculating. You're too forgiving. It's why you have me."

Charles curls closer. "Don't be ridiculous. I have you because I need someone to find my cane when I lose it in the woods."

Erik snorts. "I can't believe I forgot about that."

"And that's why I'm the brains, and you're the adorable old man."

"Don't push it, small fry."

"Something wrong, jolly green giant?"

"I hate you."

"You don't."

Letting out a deep breath, Erik sighs. "No, I don't. You infuriate me, but I don't hate you."

"You're still upset at me for the business with Hank, aren't you?"

"'Business'? You were careless, and you publicly humiliated someone who cares for you. Again."

"You think I don't know that?" Charles asks. "I'm mortified, Erik. But it's not- Never mind."

"It's not what?"

"All my fault."

"You're a grown man, Charles. You ought to have the self-control not to beard someone over an insult they didn't even have the heart to finish."

"That's not what I said- You know what? Forget about it. There was something you wanted to talk to me about earlier in the classroom. What was that?"

Erik coughs. "What did you do with Emma?"

"Emma? Nothing. She's to stay in her room until I figure out what to do with her, but I didn't cast her out. Why?"

"I thought you might have lumped her together with Shaw."

Several things click into place. "You knew," he breathes. "You knew about Shaw, the gang, Janos- Good God, Erik." Charles' heart sinks. "You let that mess with Moira happen!"

Erik shakes his head. "I didn't. Janos seemed familiar, but it was Ruth who convinced me."

"How the bloody hell would Ruth know?"

"He came to our house."

Charles could smack himself for not putting it together. "After you got caught. He was the one who scoped them out in case you talked."

"She wasn't going to tell me, but my dad thought otherwise." Blowing out a breath, Erik confesses, "I was part of their gang. That was how Emma knew she could trust me. She wants out, too, and she came to me hoping we could bring Shaw down."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Would you have believed us?"

"I would have believed you," Charles says. Between his ribs, his heart is snapping as if it could break apart. "You're my closest friend, Erik. I would have felt the truth in your mind."

"Seen it, you mean."

"That's what this is about?" Charles asks, stung. "My mutation? You think I would have, what, hurt you? Rooted through your mind like some sort of animal?" He shrugs off Erik's arm, clambers gracelessly to his feet. "This is why I gave you those fucking headphones. As if all I want to do is look at your petty little thoughts- I gave you privacy, and you’ve refused to use it.”

Erik winces. “I thought you were telling me I was too loud.”

“You don’t think I would have just told you if that were the case?” Shaking his head, Charles draws himself up. “No, this was just another case of a non-psionic thinking telepaths give a damn about your tiny little thoughts. I thought you better than that, old friend. I _hoped_ you better."

Leaving Erik behind is never easy, but as Charles limps away, he can't say it's hard.


	6. Chapter 6

_What are you now? If we could touch one another, if these our separate entities could come to grips, clenched like a Chinese puzzle..._

Charles has a flare up in early March.

It manifests in a groovy new way: partial paralysis. He wakes up and tries to get up, only to feel one side of his lower body refuse to move. He breathes through the panic until he can pull back the sheets and look down at the trouble. He sees nothing out of place, but the minutes click by without any change. The second time he tries and fails to leverage himself to his feet, he has to admit it. He can’t move his left leg. He can’t feel his left leg. It crumples under him when he tries to put his weight on it, drags uselessly behind him as he leans against the wall and hops toward the lav.

Last time this happened, he just made arrangements with his TA and the girl who sat in the row ahead of him. He got his notes, did his work, and endured.

This time, he makes it through a shower and the journey downstairs to the kitchen before he gets caught.

Erik takes one look at him and declares they are going to hospital, no complaints.

Still huffing and puffing from his journey, Charles doesn't fight him.

 

***

 

They go to the usual hospital, where the staff is familiar with both of them after years of bringing the children in with broken arms and twisted ankles or the rare mutation-related complication. The nurses at triage know not to bother fighting Erik when he follows Charles, though the one who fetches the wheelchair gives Charles a wink as Erik takes it from her with a proprietary glare.

Charles would wonder about that if it he weren't so busy not being able to walk.

Once they get to the room, Charles swivels onto the table with only a minor stare-off to remind Erik his presence is tolerated, not required, and unsolicited help will be neither. Erik spends the next twenty minutes glaring at the clock on the wall. Charles leaves him to it. He didn't take any pain pills this morning- he didn't take any pills this morning- and he can feel their absence.

You don’t know what you've got until it's gone and all that.

The nurse comes in to get his vitals and confirm his identity, which is fine, but when the doctor arrives, Charles has to send Erik out to check in with the school before he harasses the man into a lawsuit. How staring menacingly at someone would merit an actual suit, Charles doesn't know, but Erik has a talent for sniffing out impossibilities and making them real.

Case in point: he celebrated his twenty first birthday by getting so hammered, he accidentally switched the earth's magnetic poles. He still gets calls from curious scientists about it.

While his friend is out of the way, if not out of Charles' line of sight- if it weren’t such a tense situation, Charles would laugh at the way Erik is stretching up and squinting through the blinds like skeptical giraffe- the doctor begins poking and prodding at him.

"Well, Mr. Xavier," Eugene Reynolds, MD, says as he straightens, "I don't know how you did it, but your leg is definitely paralyzed."

Charles does not, to his credit, say anything sarcastic. He simply nods along as the man outlines all the blood panels and tests Charles is going to have done. Erik is inching back into the room by that point, and Charles draws strength from the poor attempt at subtlety.

"So," Erik says the moment the doctor leaves, "how long has this been going on?"

"How many times do I have to say 'since this morning' before you believe me?" Charles asks testily.

"Excuse me for not taking you at your word. You've only hidden things like this how many times?"

"And you've made teased for being a wuss how many times?"

They are saved from the retort on the tip of Erik's tongue by the return of the nurse. She's pretty and deftly gets his sneaky veins in order, and Charles almost forgets the looming presence in the chair off to the side as he coaxes a delightful little laugh out of her. She lets him flirt with her while she fills and swaps out the heap of tubes, and Charles relaxes for the first time since he woke up.

Erik's mood is well and truly black when the nurse leaves, his mind still hissing from the moment he noticed Sarah's fingers lingering on Charles' bicep as she untied the tourniquet. They wait in heavy silence for the orderly to come and take Charles to his next round of testing. Charles almost suggests Erik stay here for the ultrasound. He doesn't, though, and the familiar storm cloud of a mind follows him on his gurney journey to radiology.

He has to take his sweats off for the ultrasound, which the handsome tech is more than happy to offer his help with. Erik, who was already inching over to help, freezes.

Charles quietly curses himself. How often is he going to get two attractive men to square off over being the one to strip him off?

Objectively- he can do that, be objective- he can admit Erik is a good looking dude. He stays in shape, and his face is nice. It's a good face, at least an eight. Possibly a ten. Just not when he is being judgmental. Or when he pulls on a blank mask like he's doing now.

"I think I can handle it myself actually," he announces. Easier said than done though it is, Charles does manage to extract his leg from his trousers without incident.

The rest of the exam goes without a hitch, not counting Erik's increasingly disgruntled internal monologue.

 _Would you stop?_ Charles thinks at him in desperation when Erik crosses the whinge limit. Wade is running the wand plenty high up his leg, and Charles is pathetically pleased by the open regard radiating off the tech. Erik is killing his buzz.

 _He's enjoying this,_ comes the grouchy complaint.

_So? I'm not offended by a man who enjoys his work, Erik._

Wade finishes soon after, and he pronounces Charles' leg perfectly healthy. He isn't nearly as flirty as he was earlier as he makes a quick exit. If anything, he seems unsettled. By Charles.

The orderly returns and takes Charles back to his room, a trip that sees Erik's mood brighten as Charles' darkens.

All day it's the same thing: lie on his ass, remind Erik to stay out and not to interfere, lie on his ass more. The results will be available later. Back to the room he goes. Then it's onto the next round of pokes and prods.

Erik refuses to leave the hospital, but he's clearly bored. Charles catches him texting at one point- Erik. Texting. The man hates texting. He hates cell phones in general, if largely because he fucks them up when he loses his temper.

He interrupts Charles before he can work himself up to a proper snit with reports from the school.

"Irene says the boys are giggling about kumquats again."

"The Summers brothers melted another wall."

"Senator Kelly called. Your sister told him to go fuck himself."

Charles shouldn't be so calmed by his school making messes. He definitely should not enjoy the thought of Raven letting that wrinkly old bigot have it. Next time they have to deal with each other, the senator is going to be a bigger pain in the balls than usual. Doubtless, Raven enjoyed the opportunity to mouth off to him, though- considering he was the most vocal advocate of cutting the funding for the mutant rescue program she heads, despite the program saving on foster care and justice system costs, Charles can sympathize. The school's federal aid has been decreasing. Because mutant-related violence has been dropping. Which has nothing to do with the school or Raven's work, has it? And when the rates go up again, they'll try to blame mutants and push once more for that absurd one strike rule.

The bed dips as something heavy flops down by Charles' hip. Glancing over, he sees Erik scowling at him. Charles lifts his brows in silent query.

Erik huffs. "Stop worrying."

"I'm not worrying."

"Yes, you are."

"Am not."

"Are so."

Charles rolls his eyes, but he has to admit Erik's tactic worked. The worry that had been working its way up his throat is gone.

Wrapping a hand around Erik's sock-clad foot (Best not think about when he took his shoes off), Charles gives it a little shake. "Hey."

Pausing in his rapid tapping, Erik cuts a look at Charles over his phone.

"I missed you."

His friend's expression softens. "Me, too."

"You missed you, or you missed me?" Charles asks. You never know with Erik. "Don't look at me like that. You're the one always saying I shouldn't jump to conclusions!"

"Yes, Charles, I missed you, too." His attention drops back to his phone, and Charles assumes the conversation is over. Then Erik asks if he wants to see a modern masterpiece, and Charles finds himself scooting over to accommodate his friend on the bed in order to peer at the nonsensical mess on the screen. Erik objects when Charles says as much, but his mind curls amicably around Charles' as he sets about explaining why he is the new Picasso.

The next round of tests comes too soon, and handsome though the tech is, Charles can't bring himself to want to flirt with the man. He would rather be back in the room with Erik, the two of them fighting over whether the cock and balls Charles contributed were abstract enough.

For his part, Erik endures this test with the most patience yet. He climbs back in beside Charles right away, and they resume the painting game until Erik has to leave. He does so reluctantly, promising the whole time that he will be back in the morning.

 

***

 

Two days and no answers later, Charles gets visitors. They arrive an hour after lunch, their voices carrying down the hallway ahead of their footsteps, and Charles has a long minute to wish he had taken a shower before the first Lehnsherr pokes her head in.

"Edie!" a voice hisses loudly. "Knock first!"

Mrs. Lehnsherr twists to pacify her husband. Charles doesn't hear what they say, but from the shape of their thoughts, this is an old, superficial argument.

Eventually they finish arguing, and one of them pointedly knocks on the door.

Fighting a smile, Charles calls for them to come in.

Edie is once more the first through the door, her expression harassed as she makes her way across the room to him. "Charles, _kaddishel_ ," she sings, "I have not seen you in much too long!" She bends down and wraps Charles in a hard hug.

Behind her, Jakob drags a second chair to join Erik's. "Don't suffocate the boy," he advises blandly. "Sorry, Charles, but you know my wife. If you didn't want to get squeezed, you shouldn't have kept her waiting."

"Oh, hush." Edie releases Charles and slides back to take the chair her husband left open. She leans into him with the ease of a habit born of years of intimacy. Her husband returns the gesture by tucking his arm around her shoulders, which she instinctively leans into.

This is why Charles kept away. Love is not for him, he knows. He doesn't need it, or particularly want it. But he does sometimes feel stray bits of envy for the ease couple have with each other. Erik's parents are the perfect couple. They love each other so deeply, so steadily, Charles can't help but want that for himself.

Edie once told him she hadn't thought she would ever find a husband. She was too demanding, too stubborn. All the men who courted her wanted to break her or be broken by her. Then she met Jakob. "All he wanted was to talk with me. He's very traditional, my Jakob. We fought so much at first! But he kept coming back, and each time, he had this _look_. No one else looked at me like that- no one else came back for more after the first fight! It was how I knew he was for me."

Charles has no doubt Erik inherited that from Edie. His friend could find an argument with a stone if he wanted to and have a grand old time with it. Someday, he will find someone who fights him like Jakob does with Edie. Erik deserves to be as happy as they are.

"It's good to see you both," he says, shaking off the melancholy. "I don't mean to be rude, but what brings you here?"

"Ruth told us you were sick," Jakob tells him.

"We brought you food," Edie adds. She pats her husband's unusually round belly. "Erik told Ruth you were being fed hospital food. Feh!"

They continue in the same vein, Edie tsking unhappily as she liberates the plate from Jakob's shirt. Charles tells her it isn't so bad, but he wolfs down the treats regardless.

More than an hour passes, the three swapping stories until Edie declares they have to get back. Jakob rises first. He gently claps Charles on the shoulder warmly, the gesture made infinitely more affectionate coming as it does from a man as self-contained as Erik's father. Edie is right behind him. She pulls Charles into a hug, which she uses to murmur, "You know you are always welcome in our home, Charles. Jakob and I are getting sentimental in our old age. We miss our second son."

Charles does not get the chance to respond. His throat is tight with emotion as the Lehnsherrs smile at him and walk out hand in hand.

He only realizes he's been had later, when he discovers the plastic container hidden under his blankets.

 

***

 

Magda comes by the day after. She doesn't stay long, and the time she does spend with him has the same strained quality from the months before the divorce. She doesn't want to talk about it, obviously, but Charles can't not feel her discomfort.

He doesn't know which of them is more relieved when she leaves.

 

***

 

Less unexpectedly, Moira visits him on the sixth day of his stay. She arrives at the start of visiting hours with a look of determination. Her mind is resolute; she came for a specific reason, one she intends to fulfil.

Now is not the time to tell her, but Charles has been enamored with that quality of hers from the beginning. She is made of the sternest stuff. Nothing, her mind declares, will break me. He doesn't doubt it.

"Erik told me about Janos," she says, slipping into a chair as she does. "I can't blame him for not making a scene. I want to, though. Fuck, I want to."

Charles nods. Erik and Moira are not unalike in their anger.

"But I'm tired of being angry. You didn't set out to be a wiener. You just were one."

"Are you forgiving me?"

"...l guess I am."

They lapse into silence after that. Charles expected more of a fight. This grim version of his friend is disconcerting. He doesn't know what to do with her.

Except, he owes her this much...

"Could I take advantage and be a wiener again?"

Moira chuckles. "May as well."

Hating himself, he says, "I think you should reconsider Sean."

"Excuse me?" All humor flees her face. "You want to run that by me again, Charles?"

"I think you should give Sean a chance."

"And I think you've meddled enough."

"Exactly." Reaching out, Charles takes her hand. "If I hadn't interfered, you would have found your way to each other on your own. I know it. Just... think on it. All right?"

Moira nods slowly. "Where's your pudding?" she asks after a moment. "You owe me a pudding for being a double wiener."

Charles grins and fetches his saved treat, which Moira takes and digs into with gusto.

"What about you then?" she asks around a mouthful of tapioca. At Charles' confusion, she waves her spoon. "You were a lush if I ever saw one. When're ye gonnae get a nice lass or lad and settle down?"

Caught up as he is by the sudden thickening of her accent, Charles almost forget to answer. "That's not for me, I'm afraid."

"Is it no’?"

"Nope. I have all I could ever want in Westchester. I have children enough in the students, and no one I married would reasonably put up with the hours I put in. Love is just a bit of fluff. It isn't anything to build a life on."

Moira chews that over, her mind working in time with her jaw. "Horseshite," she pronounces.

"Pardon?"

"Horse. Shite." Pointing at him with her plastic spoon, she narrows her eyes. "If I knew you were so out of touch, I never would have come to you in the first place."

"That isn't-"

"Oh, shut up. You're no some Victorian lady resisting an inconvenient marriage. You want love, arsehole. You love love. 'Pretty and soft', my arse. You think your mum is drinking herself to death over something so flimsy? You wouldnae have any trouble finding the right person if you just took your head out your damn colon."

Outburst over, Moira jams another mouthful of pudding into her mouth.

They don't speak again until Moira gets up to leave.

"Later, Headmaster," she calls from the doorway. "Get better soon. Your number two is getting right homicidal."

 

***

 

Through providence, divine or Moira's own, the next day is the one that sees Charles' leg restored to him. The doctors remain stumped. The nurses are no less confused, though it falls to Charles' orderly to say it outright.

"What the hell kind of magic did you do?" the man asks with a whistle. "That was fucking weird!"

"Connecticut," Charles mumbles, too low for the man to hear.

Erik, who appeared with a binder of work bright and early, snorts.

As the two of them finally make their way outside, Erik runs ahead to unlock the doors. Charles takes the moment of respite to lean against the wall. He's so focused on not falling over, he doesn't realize he isn't alone until he hears a familiar drawl.

"Much as I like to be of service, I don't appreciate being used, Mr. Xavier."

Charles peers over his shoulder, confused. "What are you talking about?"

"That man is obviously head over heels for you," Wade tells him sternly. He points toward the parking lot, singling out the sole source of movement: Erik. "His interest isn't wandering or whatever scenario you've cooked up to justify flirting with other people in front of him. It's cruel."

Faced with what will only be an uphill battle, Charles skips trying to convince the man that Erik isn't his boyfriend. He simply thanks Wade and quickly hobbles over to Erik, who meets him halfway with a pissy, "You couldn't wait ten more seconds?"

The witty rejoinder Charles had waiting dies on his tongue at the sight of the nest of blankets and travel pillows in the front seat. He couldn't say why, but the fact that Erik went out of his way to make it feels significant. The sort of thing Charles should acknowledge with more than a light, "Oh, thanks for this, pal." That's all he has, though. If it disappoints Erik, his friend keeps that to himself.

In fact, Erik keeps all his thoughts to himself until they come to the first stop sign in North Salem. Here, Erik makes his pitch.

"Have you considered getting admitted to Westchester Medical?" he asks, too idly. "I've heard good things about them. Given time, they might find the cause the others missed."

"Yes, I have considered it, and no, I won't go," Charles says tiredly. Sitting down for a week left him too tired to think about getting up the stairs to his room, let alone have his conversation.

"I wouldn't dismiss it out of hand-"

Charles slaps the dash. "I said no, dammit."

"You run a school," Erik protests. "Children count on you. You're the face of the mutant movement. Our brothers and sisters everywhere count on you. We need you to be strong, Charles."

"Don't you dare use the children to try to blackmail me!" Charles tells, catching a second wind from fury. "I live for our kind. Everything I do, absolutely everything, is for them. So you can take that shite and shove it back up your arse where you got it!"

Erik falls silent, and Charles dares to hope they're done with this.

"Am I not allowed to be worried?" Erik asks roughly. His knuckles are white where they're wrapped hard around the wheel. "You're my friend. I don't want to see you suffer."

"Then ask as my friend."

"Will you go to that hospital?" Erik volunteers softly. "Please?"

Anything, Charles thinks. He would do almost anything when Erik asks in that voice. He fits his hand to Erik's shoulder, feels the tension running in the flesh beneath. "I'm sorry, my friend, but I will not."

Erik's grip on the wheel only tightens as he lets his foot off the brake and directs them home.

They don't speak when Erik parks or when they get out. Neither comments on the hand Erik wordlessly places under Charles' arm, supporting him as they shuffle through the back door, and neither has to ask why the children, who had been clamoring to get their professor back, are conspicuously missing. They move through the kitchen and the halls undisturbed, save the doubt gnawing at Charles.

He has reasons for not wanting to go to that particular hospital. Reasons only known to Charles, Mother, and, to a lesser degree, Raven. Keeping secrets from Erik is unnatural, but there are things Charles has learned not to bring up if he can possibly avoid them.

The pills are enough. They were last time, and they will be now.

Erik's restless confusion has whipped itself into a froth by the time he helps Charles plop onto his bed.

Sliding into the groove shaped perfectly to his body after a week lying on a characterless hospital bed is heaven. Charles could cry with relief.

His homecoming takes a turn for the worse when he senses a prickle of surprise from Erik.

"What the fuck are these?"

Despite his instincts shouting at him to leave his head buried in his pillow, Charles lifts his head. It isn't difficult to identify the source of the problem. "Ah."

"'Ah'?" Erik echoes incredulously. "Is that all you have to say?" Shaking his hand- more importantly, shaking the bottles in his hand- he draws himself up. "After everything, you're using again. You built the school you dreamt of! You've saved lives, damn it! Is nothing good enough for you?"

Pushing himself up, Charles does his best to blow the languor from his body. "That's not how it is, and I think you know that."

"Do I?" Erik's eyes flash. "Where did you get them, Charles? What crooked doctor did you enlist to write you this much heavy stuff?"

"Amphetamines and oxycodone are hardly that heavy." Wrong thing to say- he knew that before he said it. "They're all above board, Erik. Before you argue, you should remember who told you I was using and how much we resented each other at the time. Letting people believe I was doing uppers was easier than admitting the truth at the time."

"And what 'truth' is that?"

"That I am sick!" Charles snarls. His head is splitting open, but he can't keep his voice down. "I am impaired, possibly forever. I struggle to dress myself, to remember where I am- my body gives out with no warning. I live in constant pain. I'm tired, old friend, and have been for years. So if I must ask a doctor who is sympathetic to my condition to write me some scripts in order to do my job protecting these children and this school and all of you, that is what I will do!"

Eyes wide, Erik looks at him with new eyes. In another world, Charles would brace himself for the proselytizing. The endless lists of "have you tried" and "what about this" spouted from well-meaning minds that nonetheless drive his hackles up. As if he has not tried every holistic option. In Erik, Charles has no idea what will come. Fury? Disgust?

Scorn?

"You never told me." The words are soft, neither reprimand nor invitation. "Years, you said. I knew your health wasn't ideal, but you've been like this for years and you never said a word."

"I keep my own secrets, just as I don't insist on knowing all of yours."

"But why?" Confusion rolls in, bringing hurt with it. Erik wants to be angry. Anger is a weapon he can use. Pain is the second edge of the blade, the one that can cut him as easily as the other person.

"I don't like to look weak," Charles admits. "I know I'm not, but with the cane, the pity is bad enough. I'm constantly emasculated because of the damn things. And my gift- knowing people's thoughts. It's such a feminine gift, you see. If everyone knew I was taking pills because my skin hurts, of all things..." He chuckles. "I don't know if I could endure it."

Erik shakes his head and begins to pace. "You saw me at my worst. You cleaned up my mess. You held my family together while I did my best to tear them apart. Why couldn't you trust me? Am I still so wretched that you would rather agonize alone than confide in me?"

"What? No. Erik, no. The two are nothing alike."

"How so?"

"They just aren't. You were a kid. You fucked up. That's what kids do. Maybe not as loudly as you did, admittedly," he allows, trying for levity Erik is uninterested in matching. The tattoo Erik hates so much stands in sharp relief against his skin; the flames shift with the tendons in his forearm. "You were never weak. You got yourself out of that situation on your own. Any help I gave was secondary to your own efforts. With this, I've done everything I could. Every medication in every dosage, every pharmaceutical cocktail- I have the scars to prove the most rigorous intervention. And here I am, as weak as I was in the beginning."

Dropping his eyes, he thinks of his own arms. Erik's trauma was inscribed unmistakably into his skin. Charles' own scars are far smaller. They will disappear with time.

The springs creak under Erik's weight. "That's why you have friends," he says. "You have me without condition, old friend. Just tell me what I can do."

"Nothing. Another reason I kept this to myself. You can't help, and I am too well-acquainted to watching someone I love suffer while I stand by and watch uselessly. I would not wish that on you."

Erik thinks about that for a moment. "I don't like it."

Chuckling, Charles seconds the sentiment.

"I have an idea," Erik says. He gets up fluidly, bounds off gracefully in a way that reminds Charles of his own clumsy body.

There's nothing to be done about it, though, so he simply climbs under the covers.

When Erik returns eons later, his dress clothes are gone. In their place are his worn school sweats. He has a book tucked under one arm, the other holding a cup and saucer which he passes to Charles. It's his favorite, he knows without looking, as is the biscuit Erik takes from his pocket.

Charles doesn't get to ask what's happening. Erik is too busy getting situated on the free side of the bed. He makes a production of sighing over Charles "hogging" his own blankets but refuses to take any Charles offers him. He turns over before Charles can ask what book he's reading.

"I'm not warming it up if you let your tea get cold," he announces when Charles fails to do more than stare at his back.

Lips pulling into a smile, Charles brings his cup up and takes a sip. As he guessed, it is his favorite, and Erik made it exactly the way he likes.

How did he forget? There is nothing more integral to his friend than the need to make things better. If there is no remedy, he will find one of his own. Traditional remedies have failed Charles, yes. But Erik never will.

"I'm sorry," Charles tells him. "For what I said before, about Magda. It was wrong of me."

Erik doesn't reply, but when Charles wakes from a nap he didn't mean to take and finds his bed lonely once more, his tea is still warm.


	7. Chapter 7

_I will tell you all. I will conceal nothing._

The weekend after Charles' return is a quiet one. The days leading up to it were as well; a hush fell over the school when he left, and Charles has been tugged into more than one overcome hug. His heart hurts to see all the progress he made with the newest students endangered. More than one has woken him in the night, their distress snagging his gift in its nocturnal wandering. Seeing himself through their eyes as he tucks them back in is the strangest dissonance. He is at once their protector, a larger than life figure with the power to keep them safe, and a thin man with dark circles under his eyes and too little flesh on his face.

Only time can bring them comfort now. Charles will regain his lost weight, they will discover their safety is not hinged on him alone, and the world will keep turning.

So he is reminding himself when a series of knocks interrupts his grading.

"Come in," he calls.

A moment later, Emma Frost emerges. She feels the worse for wear as well. Externally, she is flawless, but her psyche is wrung out. "We should talk," she says, delicately settling herself in the chair opposite him.

"I agree."

She cocks her head. "How are you so calm about this?" _How can you trust me?_

"After Shaw, you mean?" She nods, and Charles sighs. "I'm not. I'm angry. But my top priority has to be the children, and obsessing over payback won’t help them." _Shaw didn't trust you. Erik does. And, to be honest, you're a survivalist, not a supremacist._

"You have uncommon consistency." _Impossible consistency. What are you hiding?_

"I'm an uncommon man." _Biscuits, in the kitchen- but don’t tell anyone._

Something about that amuses her deeply; the chiming laugh she lets out is wholly unaffected. "Yes, that's what Erik said. I didn't believe him. Shows you how much I know."

"We're in the same boat then," Charles says. "But I've known Erik for years. I shouldn't doubt him, yet here I am. Doubting him."

"You sense he's hiding something from you," Emma clarifies. "He won't let you read his mind, and your gift doesn't like that."

Charles frowns. "How did you know?" _Do you know what he's keeping from me? Will you tell me?_

Emma’s gaze drifts away from Charles, her eyes unfocusing as they settle on the window. "Shaw found a telepathy-blocking helmet once. He loved it, wore it all the time. Nothing says 'don't trust me' to a telepath like being kept out. For what it's worth, though?" She blinks away the recollection, quirks her lips. "I don't think Erik blocks you because he has a headmistress on the side if that’s what you’re thinking." _Yes, I do, and no, I won't. And you know why._

It isn't a friendly reassurance. Charles sees that right away. It's something deeper, something Charles has yearned for.

Trust. Erik has it in them both, and that is enough for them to trust each other. For telepaths, that trust is a bond; Charles and Emma have safe harbor in each other now.

Someday it might even grow into friendship.

"Thank you, Emma."

"It's nothing, sugar. I hate to admit it, but I've grown fond of that messy, messy man. I'd like him to be happy."

"One last thing, before you grab my good wine."

She cocks her head, annoyed by the delay but willing to play ball. "What's that?"

Charles takes a breath. "What would you have done?"

"With Shaw?" She shrugs. "Killed him, I suppose. Erik was talking me out of it- ‘dead bodies on school grounds are bad for the students’ and all that. It would have been messier than calling the cops, too, though I suspect you have some strings to pull with the department."

Of course he does. A group of minority children, isolated in almost-rural New York- not cultivating some sway would have been reckless. "And you're all right with that? Even though you loved him?"

"That's another two things," Emma says, and Charles lets the questions go.

A generous glass of red later, though, she mentally taps him on the shoulder and out of nowhere admits, _That's why I was all right with it. The man I loved disappeared a long time ago, Charles. I couldn't abide seeing his shade do harm to what he used to love._

 

***

 

Emma needs help getting to bed, which Charles is not the ideal person to provide, but she has no qualms about latching on and swaying them both toward her room.

She kisses his cheek when takes her shoes off, then tells him to go away.

Charles is happy to comply.

On the way to his own bedroom, Charles sees Moira and Sean sitting curled against each other on the sofa. Moira catches his eye and smiles. Charles smiles back, the ease between the couple loosening the knot of tension in his gift leftover from Emma.

He doesn't linger long, only time enough to shoot a look at the screen and see a familiar creature drag a person underground. Still, he can't help but laugh quietly when, as he walks away, he hears Sean exclaim, "Moira, did you see that? Worm dude just _ate_ that guy!"

Their warmth carries Charles up the flight of stairs to his room. His knees twinge sharply as he bends to untie his shoes, and the glow fades. He finishes changing as quickly as he can; tired though he is, he hasn't seen his mother in almost two weeks. She must be lonely by now with only her caregiver to look in on her.

Hopefully the woman didn't tell Mother he was in hospital.

Usually he visits earlier, but he has been so busy catching up on everything, he has barely gotten any sleep since he got back. Being a teacher, headmaster, and owner is a heavier burden than he anticipated.

Youthful overconfidence. He thought he could be a politician, too. Charles owes Senator Kelly of all men a debt of gratitude for disabusing him of that notion. The very idea of having to work in that shitshow makes his skin crawl.

 _Mum will be upset when I tell her the truth._ At least she will be more relieved that he's fine than angry at being left out.

Probably.

He is coming up on her room when the door opens and Erik comes out. They both freeze, caught equally off-guard by the other.

"What were you-" Charles asks, just as Erik says, "I was just-"

"You first," Erik urges.

Charles nods. "Since when do you visit my mother?"

"Since you got brought to the hospital." _Lie._ "She was upset about your absence."

There is more to it than that, but Charles lets it go. It's late. He doesn't want to argue, or to explain how he knows Erik has been going there for months. "I should thank you, then, for keeping her company in my absence." Charles holds up a hand. "Don't protest. I know you. You came here every day and sat with her, didn't you?"

Expression clouding, Erik shrugs. "I did what I could. She is quite a woman. Now I know where you get your charm- what little you have."

"Oi!"

"And she explained why you were so set against going to Westchester Medical." Charles' heart stops. Erik steps closer. "I forgot that was where they took you when you manifested. Sharon filled me in on what happened there. How unprepared there were."

Fury, hot as liquid steel, pours into Charles. It doesn't burn him though it swirls against him.

 _I would have torn the building down,_ Erik's mind spits. _They were supposed to take care of you._

Charles lays his hand on Erik's shoulder. "Thank you, my friend. But that is all in the past. I'm all right, and thanks to a hefty anonymous donation, the hospital now has the tools to ensure the same will come of any psionic brought there."

His smile goes unanswered, but Erik does let go of his anger. "I see," he says after a moment. "Well, your mother is asleep, and I should do the same."

"The fifth years insisted on dodgeball again?" Charles guesses.

Erik's sigh is the sound of a man who has been a casualty of wild pre-teen arms. "I told you before: your children are animals. No discipline whatsoever."

"And that has nothing to do with their gym teacher doting on them, I'm sure," Charles teases. "Much as I'd like to remind you of all the praise you heap on them for their gifts, you're right about getting sleep. I'll see you at breakfast?"

Nodding sharply, Erik gives him a sloppy salute and heads off.

Charles watches him leave. For all he has known Erik nearly all his life, his friend remains a mystery to him in so many ways. There was a moment there, when Erik was thinking about the hospital, that Charles could have sworn he heard another thought. _I should have protected you,_ it sounded like.

He really should get some rest if he's inventing guilt for Erik.

 

***

 

The school returns to its earlier state quickly. The same cannot be said for Charles and Magda.

He meets her at the same little place they met the first time. They get their food and sit down at a table in the far corner with scarcely more than a hello. Charles eats his bagel too quickly. Magda chugs her vitamin water with the same nervous energy. Rather than go into the details of their weeks as they had done before the hospital visit, they sit in awkward silence. She plays with the wrapper on her empty bottle. He runs his fingers over the bump on his cane.

He must have said something wrong last time. He just can't figure out what.

So he asks her.

"Don't play stupid, Charles," she snaps. Immediately she relents, reaching out with her mind toward his. "I'm sorry. It's just... Erik was the love of my life. He still is, in a way. It hurts going over the end of us, especially with you of all people."

Charles shakes his head. "You keep saying that. 'You of all people.' I don't understand what you mean."

Magda blinks at him. Her mind snaps between disbelief and disappointment, ultimately settles on the latter. "You really don't get it, do you?" She barks a laugh. "Well, that's something. At least I'm not alone in this."

"Maggie..."

"I know you love him, Charles."

"Of course I love him," Charles replies, not seeing what she's getting at. "Same as you."

Magda pinches her nose. "Charles. I married Erik."

"Obviously I don't mean it like that-"

She looks at him sharply. "Don't you?"

"What? Me, want to marry Erik?" Charles laughs. "Don't be ridiculous. Why would I-"

Magda quirks a brow and sends him a memory.

_The three of them at the cinema, the movie over and the people around them getting up, Magda wanting to do the same but forced to wait as Erik dithers about waking Charles, the dispute coming to an end as Erik reluctantly pushes Charles' head off his shoulder. Magda is pleased, because as much as she likes Charles, the sooner they get out of here, the sooner they can drop Charles off. She isn't sure why Erik was so insistent on bringing him in the first place- Charles blows warm and cold toward movies at best, and the fact that he conked out on Erik's shoulder midway kept Erik glued to the spot, which made it hard for Magda to cuddle up with her husband the way she usually does. Erik is murmuring to their friend now, gently coaxing Charles awake. Magda had figured Erik would be as ready to leave as she is- he was certainly ready to blow the whole thing off earlier in favor of going down on her, which she had resisted expressly because Erik had invited Charles- but Erik clearly isn't in the mood just to honk a mental car horn until Charles opens his eyes. Which he does, finally. When he does, Magda's vision temporarily isn't hers; instead of seeing Charles and the back of her husband's head, she only sees Erik. His expression is soft, and her heart beats faster at the thought of that affection being for her, of answering it in kind. The feeling disappears as quickly as it came. Charles apologizes, says he got a bit jumbled up and cites his gift's infamous tendency to wander when he's asleep. Magda accepts it, as does Erik- they witnessed Charles' messy adolescence, and next to that, a few slip-ups aren't worth mentioning. They leave and return Charles without further incident, but when they get home, Erik isn't in the mood for anything other than sleep._

"I thought you were conflating my memories of Erik with your own at first," she says, not unkindly. "But later, as things with Erik and me got worse, I started to wonder. Was it more than just our usual problems getting worse? If you two were together, the way Erik kept pulling back from me made sense..."

Charles doesn't realize he's shaking until Magda takes his hand. "I know you weren't," she says before he can. "You two aren't the type. I was looking for a way that wouldn't make me feel like a failure, and you were a convenient means to that end. But I don't think I was wrong in seeing something there, was I?"

Charles swallows but can't make the words come out. Magda's memory sparked a hundred of his own.

A young Erik bristling in Charles' defense. An older one poorly hiding a broken wrist. Erik clumsily trying to be kind about squashing a child's crush on him. Erik standing at the front of a class, distilling his pain into a lesson to help the next generation stay safe. The two of them lounging in the study, Erik giving him one of those looks over the rim of his glass. Erik wrapping Charles in his coat last winter, both of them standing too close, strangely relaxed as the fire alarm blares.

Charles' joy the first time he saw Erik's name on the staff roster, his sense of everything coming together at the sight of Erik dressed sharply as he shepherds parents into his classroom. Charles' mixed feelings about the divorce. His guilt at not feeling as bad for Erik as he was relieved.

How could he have missed something so obvious?

The memories fade, and Charles is back sitting at the table with Magda. For a woman who just coached one of her oldest friends into admitting his big gay love for his best friend, her ex-husband, she is oddly calm. There is resentment and hurt, and the lingering remnants of suspicion, but more than anything, her mind is tired.

It occurs to him that Magda just told him she has known he loves Erik for years, since before the get.

Charles drops his head against the table. "Fuck."

Magda pats his hand. "That's the spirit."

 

***

 

In the wake of his epiphany, Charles retreats to safety.

"How could I not see it?" he groans. "I know Erik. It won't be long before he makes things official with Emma. Magda's timing is truly unbeatable."

Sharon snorts.

"What?"

"Nothing," she rasps. "Only, you sound just like your father. He used to whine at me constantly."

Sensing her thirst, Charles helps her tip a few ice chips into her mouth.

"You both misunderstand people," she continues. "Brian was too much the academic, but you..." She trails off, a distant look settling over her eyes for a moment. It disappears quickly, and she blinks up at him, confused, for a long moment. "You forget your head is not your heart."

Where did he hear those words before? "I don't know what you mean," he says, trying to recall who said that first.

"You are so set in what is necessary to live, you overlook what is necessary to flourish. Bloody stupid idea."

The profanity makes the answer click into place. Erik. Erik is the one who said it.

"Mum," Charles says, gently as he can. She gives him the stink eye- her health is failing faster lately, but she isn't so far gone she won't ball him out if it suits her- and he drops the tiptoeing. "Did you hear that from Erik?"

She nods but refuses to elaborate until he picks up on the fact that she wants more ice. "He's a smart boy," she explains around the chips. "Got a good mind under the pretty face." Her expression turns wry. "Not that he isn't just as thick as you sometimes. Boys, you're all stupid."

Charles is in no place to argue, so he settles for changing the conversation. Which easy watching should they go for tonight: _East Enders_ or _Midsomer Murders_?

They watch, but all Charles can think about is what possible reason Erik has to be discussing love with Charles' mother.

 

***

 

Other people comment on how good Erik and Emma (now referred to as Double E, a dual sickening couple name and humorous double entendre) would be together. Alex observes how complementary their personalities are. Ororo adds that Erik accepted her faster than he has other people who were never involved with Shaw. Raven points out how good they look together, which Charles reluctantly has to agree with. Emma is shorter than Erik by a good amount, though it lessens with her heels. She looks like she would fit snugly under his arm when they stand side by side, and her clipped steps are faster than anyone but Erik can keep up with comfortably.

She isn't Jewish, but neither is Charles. He is less likely to get pregnant, though.

Does that work in his favor or not?

Why is he even bothering? They aren't in competition. If they were, she would have blown him out of the water.

The only person who makes no move to join in the gossip mill is Irene.

"I'm a precog," she says wearily when Charles mentions her silence. "Anything I say will be construed as advice for the future, no matter how ridiculous. So I keep my thoughts to myself. It's safer that way."

As a telepath, Charles can empathize. He should have thought of that on his own. He's just a bit... distracted.

Fucking hell, Magda.

 

***

 

Things get tense with Erik after Magda dropped the bombshell. Charles can’t be around him without thinking about it. Without wondering and comparing and looking. Christ have mercy, the looking. Erik always was easy on the eyes. Now, though…

“Something wrong?” Erik mumbles around a mouthful of cake.

One of the younger children has a birthday today, and the school is in full celebration mode. It’s the first hot day of the year, and nearly everyone is in their shirtsleeves. There was a water balloon fight earlier, and Erik, who took the brunt of it keeping the gentler children from getting brained, got soaked. Rather than run off and grab a dry one, he’s contented himself with tossing the wet one over the railing and after a hasty toweling off, throwing a towel over his shoulders.

He’s sitting next to Charles now, still dripping lightly.

“You did a terrible job of that,” Charles sighs, pointing at the latest droplets gathered at the tips of Erik’s mussed hair.

Erik shrugs takes another bite.

Now he has noticed, though, Charles can’t help but notice the other droplets clinging to Erik. There’s on the tip of his nose. Another few in the start of a beard on his chin. Lower, the hair on his chest is dark with un-toweled wetness.

As if he knew Charles has been looking- shite, did he get caught?- Erik shakes his head, and water goes flying. He turns an over-wide smile on him after, and Charles knows his secret is safe. Erik is just being Erik.

“I worked hard to avoid getting wet, you know.”

“You mean, you paid off the children to keep you dry,” Erik corrects him. “How did you do it? Cash? Drugs?”

“Please.  It was homework passes.” Charles rolls his eyes. “And finish drying off, would you? I’m getting damp from proximity.”

“No.”

“Excuse me?”

Quirking a brow, Erik says, “No. I like it this way.”

“Don’t be difficult. I’m too tired to deal with you when you’re being difficult.” It isn’t a lie. Charles is still recovering from the flare up. He is sleeping better but not well. His body aches, and it keeps him from relaxing. But he can walk with the cane, and he can hold a conversation. He lowers the doses of the pills he upped to cover earlier.

Frowning, Erik gives him a long look. “You’re all right?”

“I’m all right.”

Erik doesn’t push despite feeling like he might die if he keeps silent. It’s a strong show of restraint, one Charles intends to encourage. As for how…

“Charles!”

Whooping in delight, Charles tackles Erik from the side. He grabs the towel and scrubs furiously at Erik’s head, drying him off and muffling his indignant yelp. “What’s that?” he shouts. “I can’t hear you, Erik!”

They wrestle around on the ground for a while, Erik quickly flipping Charles over and reaching for the water bottle Charles which he dumps over Charles’ face, until Charles cheats and knees Erik in the groin. Victorious, he flops down over Erik with a whoop.

“And that’s how it’s done,” he proclaims to his uninspired staff and students.

Standing tall and somehow dirt-free, Emma rolls her eyes and turns away.

Simple as that, Charles’ victory sours. He hauls himself to his feet and offers Erik a hand up, which he takes, his larger, long-fingered hand grasping Charles’ firmly as he swings himself up. Charles lets go quickly, and with a smile, he moves off rapidly toward his sister and the safety her presence affords.

He can feel Erik’s confusion, as well as the hurt at being brushed off, but Charles can’t be casual around him. Not when he knows Erik has someone else who will soon take over even the platonic roles Charles plays.

 

***

 

Charles has gotten adept at dodging Erik of late. He puts those skills to use now. It won’t last forever, but it gives him something to do with all the anxious energy at having Erik near and keeping something from him.

It can’t last forever. The hurt on Erik’s face when Charles ducks out of the room when his friend does catch him ensures that.

 

***

 

Erik shows up for a talk the weekend before the students’ Regents exams begin. Charles is working in Cerebro's room where he can listen to the psychic resonance instead of dozens of minds trying to jam in years’ worth of knowledge despite their minds being on repetitive loops of _anxiety-study-anxiety_ when he feels the approach of a determined mind. A fleeting temptation to get up and run tickles at him, and for a single heartbeat, he almost gives in.

Reality kicks in too swiftly to allow that. Charles has no chance. Erik has longer, stronger legs. Charles has a cane. The odds are against him outrunning his friend.

Hauling himself to his feet, Charles ignores the thrill that goes through him when he feels Erik step through the doors. Too soon, he discovers. He should have waited until Erik was closer so he wouldn't have to pretend he isn't interested in the way the light hits Erik's body.

Was it always like this, or did Magda do it to him?

"Need something?" Charles asks when Erik is finally close enough.

"I just saw Emma," Erik tells him. He doesn't look like a man with a new girlfriend. There is no joy in his expression, no bounce to his step. He looks more like he got hit by a bus and had to walk fifty miles to get to hospital.

Better get this over with, Charles resolves. "Congratulations, Erik. You make a wonderful couple."

Erik shifts rapidly from drawn to confused. "What are you talking about? What couple… You can’t be serious. Frost and me? You think I want to go out with _Emma_?" Suddenly sheepish- clearly he misread the situation- Charles nods. "Did it ever occur to you that Emma is not the object of my affection? Your sister's judgment is not infallible."

"Then who is? The object of your affection, I mean.” He puts on a dopey smile and bats his lashes. “Is it me?"

_Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid._

Nostrils flaring, Erik shakes his head and makes to leave. "This was a bad idea. I should leave."

"Erik, no, wait." Charles flaps a hand at Erik, somehow manages to grab his wrist. "Why did you come? There was something you needed to tell me, wasn’t there?"

"It doesn't matter."

Charles won’t be so easily put off. "We're friends. Best friends! So you have to tell me. It's best friend privilege."

He had expected a fight, but Erik relents. He turns around slowly to face Charles. "You already know it," he cautions. "I only thought saying it aloud would let us figure out how to proceed. No more dancing around it."

Confused and not a little worried, Charles nevertheless nods Erik on. "You can tell me anything, old friend. Anything at all."

Erik takes a deep breath. "I love you."

Charles stops. Stops thinking, stops breathing, probably stops existing.

"You- You what?" he rasps.

Under his hand, Erik's arm tenses. "You didn't know?" He searches Charles' face, and the color drains from his own. "You didn't know." He takes a step back. "Shit, you really didn't know. How could you not know?"

Anticipating an escape attempt, Charles tightens his grip. Just in time, too, as Erik tries to make a break for it a half-second later.

"Let go," he orders, squirming against Charles’ hand.

"No."

"Charles!"

"Tell me again."

Erik stops struggling and gives him a flat look. "No."

"Please?"

"No! And let go of me!"

"Erik, please," Charles pleads, digging his heels harder against the smooth metal floor just in case. "Say it again."

Jaw twitching, Erik growls, "I love you, asshole."

His mind sighs when he says it. Despite the fear and its hundred imagined punishments for saying it, Erik's psyche is relieved to have said it at last.

Of course it is. A lie of omission is still a lie, and Erik has never been a comfortable liar.

Lifting his free hand, Charles lays his palm over Erik's cheek, fits his fingers to the contour of Erik's skull. His friend flinches but allows the touch.

"Shall I tell you a secret?" Charles asks. "It's one I hid from myself for years, and I'm a little pissed about that."

"What are you doing?" Erik's breath is coming fast, nearly in pants.

"I love you, too," Charles says, pulling Erik's head lower. He strokes his thumb over the jut of Erik's cheekbone.

"Don't be cruel."

Gathering up every idle daydream, every thought he re-contextualized into friendly appreciation, Charles leans up and lightly butts his forehead against Erik's. "I'm not."

Erik's eyes widen. He fits one hand over Charles' hand on his cheek, fits the other to Charles' cheek. Charles nuzzles into it.

Both of them are shaking.

"You see?" Charles presses. "I love you, Erik."

He only meant it as a reassurance, but Erik shivers. He rubs his nose against Charles', a gentle wave of _mine now?_ washing between them.

 _I was always yours,_ Charles corrects. _We just didn’t know it._

"I don't know what to do with this," Erik admits roughly. "It would be easier if I loved you less, but, Charles, I don’t. I don’t love you less, and I can't make speeches. I can't give you any grand, romantic gestures." His hands tighten their hold on Charles. "I have lectured you and shouted at you. I've treated you like a child. And you've borne it all. All I have to match you is a promise that you will not find anyone fonder, or more devoted to you in this world than I am. I will never forsake you, even if it ruins me."

"That sounded an awful lot like a speech," Charles teases quietly. His voice rasps, grating on his heart where it’s hiding in his throat. "But I'm willing to forgive you, just this once, on one condition."

"And that is?"

"You kiss me."

Erik doesn't need to be told twice. He dips his head and places the chastest kiss to Charles' lips, only to come back a second time, and here, Charles finds himself enveloped. Erik kisses him hard, as if he could match the hold his mind has on Charles'. Years of waiting, of thinking himself rejected but incapable of leaving, pour into Charles.

"I love you," he gasps when they part. His hands are fisted in Erik's hair, which must hurt, but Erik doesn't seem to mind. That's good, because Charles isn't sure he could let go if he wanted to. Which he doesn't. Leaning up, he says, "You're infuriating, and I love you."

Erik chuckles, which turns into howling laughter, and, helpless not to, Charles joins him. They stand there in the middle of the room for who knows how long, laughing like they've lost it. Maybe they have. It took them this long to recognize something as obvious as being in love.


	8. Chapter 8

_I would link the minutes of my days close, somehow, to your days._

D.C. is not Erik's favorite place. Getting there means driving through Jersey, which always puts him in a mood. Then he has to spend the next seven hours pretending driving in a straight line is a task he needs to concentrate on. Both hands on the wheel, speed only in the double digits, no using his phone or getting caught eating. Finding a deliberate way onto the High Speed Express lane going south is impossible. Finding a way off after accidentally getting on is nerve-wracking. Reading the exits is a pain the ass.

His reward for this? Navigating the Beltway, a place bereft of all human decency. It's as if they _want_ him to hit them. After the fifth asshole cuts Erik off without signaling, he gives up being nice and starts breaking taillights.

The District makes Jersey drivers look considerate. Nothing should do that. Nothing.

In short, Erik is not in a good mood when he finally gets to the hotel, checks in with the woman at the front desk who refuses to make eye contact with him, and stomps up the stairs. He isn’t in a better one after his shower or wrapping himself up in two of the soft, unnecessarily fluffy towels. He is still feeling cramped when he curls up on the bed, puts on his headphones, and falls into dreamless sleep.

Waking up to a familiar lopsided gait and the pull of the headphones popping off his ears the next morning, though, is only good. A familiar mind burrowing in leads to his headache disappearing; in its place comes a foreign sense of pleasure, the feeling rumbling through him like a cat's purr. A twinge of frustration mars it- or would, if Erik didn't find it so funny.

_You were supposed to wear those when you need privacy, not whenever,_ Charles grumbles. He gives Erik's hips a good shake as he tries to undo the knot holding his towel closed. _Must you always wrap yourself up so tight?_ _I'm here to suck my husband's cock, not play human candy wrapper_.

Erik hums, content to lie on his back and let Charles solve the problem. His husband is a smart man. He'll figure a way to get what he's going for.

True to form, Charles does.

Just not the way Erik was going for.

The only warning he gets is a flash of a challenging smile before Charles is abandoning the knot and diving between Erik's legs. His floppy mess of hair disappears under Erik's towel, which is a sight to keep for lonely nights, but none of the expected touches come. All Erik can detect of Charles is the lump where his head is between Erik's legs and the hot brush of his breath over Erik's cock.

"Charles, what-" A cold hand runs down the back of his leg. "Charles!"

His husband sends him a wave of amusement. _Be good, love, and I'll give you something worth the trip._

Being with Charles again is worth the trip on its own, but Erik isn't about to turn down a bit of fun.

Obediently, he forces himself to calm down. The pounding of his heart, painful in his chest and distracting in the hardening length scant inches from Charles' soft lips, is a distraction, so he banishes it from his thoughts.

Erik is calm. He is quiet. He is not thinking about scooting toward that little bit to press his crown against the bow of that perfect mouth that takes him in so deadly. He is not remembering the last time they did this, when Charles took him all the way in and simply swallowed around Erik's cock, his lips fat from Erik's kisses now pulled taught where they stretched to take him in. He has no memory of tracing his fingers over them. He does not recall the curl of jealousy in his gut as he thought about what exactly made Charles' mouth so shiny. He does not remember looking down at Charles' own hard length and feeling himself salivate at the thought of sucking him off.

_Good man,_ Charles praises and, before Erik can see it in his thoughts, leans down to run a quick swipe of his tongue over the tip.

"Nngh," Erik groans.

_Untie the towel, would you? It's a bit too cramped down here._

Erik scrambles to undo the knot. He didn't make it all that tight, did he? Charles must have made it tighter earlier...

It doesn't help that his husband is skimming a finger over Erik's balls.

_Charles._

_Ticklish here, too, my love?_

"I am, and you already knew that," Erik grits.

Charles' mental laugh is bright and warm, and Erik dearly enjoys interrupting it with the cold air of the room.

_Mother fucker,_ Charles hisses. _See if I suck you off._

Erik pets his hair in apology, quietly pleased by the softness of Charles' locks over his fingers.

_I love you._

_You love blowjobs._

_I love_ your _blowjobs._

Charles sighs, but Erik gets a sense of _flattery will get your dick sucked_. Then he watches as Charles opens his mouth and swallows Erik down.

It's perfect. Charles' mouth is warm and wet, his tongue just the right kind of rough where it brushes over the underside of Erik's cock.

Leaning back on his elbows, Erik watches as Charles' mouth sinks down and slides back up his length. He will never tire of the sight, nor the one that follows: Charles taking him to the root and staying there with his face buried in the thatch of hair there, mouth slick with saliva as his throat invisibly works Erik's head.

When he comes, Charles swallows it all down.

Erik tugs him up. He pulls Charles into a hard kiss, wishing as he does that the spark that runs through him could get him hard again already. All he can do until he's ready to go again is chase the taste of himself through Charles' mouth.

Reaching down, he fumbles Charles' pants open. He uses his gift to open the bedside drawer and reaches in. The sample size lotion is easy to find, easier to slick himself and Charles' cock up.

The first pump of his fist wrings a moan from Charles Erik has only heard in his dreams the last few months. Waking up hard without his new husband to help satisfy him was more than frustrating for the lack of shared orgasm. He missed the warm weight in his bed. The snuffling sounds of Charles sleeping. The feeling of being with someone as completely as only a telepath can give.

Erik wasn't alone, then.

"I can't believe you even wondered about that," Charles pants. "I've spent the last three months constantly jerking off to the thought of you. And those pictures really didn't help."

"Pictures?" Erik asks absently. He's too focused on reminding himself of the perfect fit of Charles' cock in his hand to care about much else.

"Field day," Charles says, voice hitching. "You got thrown in the lake, and that shirt- and your shorts- Not child appropriate, darling."

Ah. Erik remembers field day. Vaguely. Mostly he was preoccupied being unhappy about Charles not being with him. He picked those clothes out ahead of time, thinking he might convince Charles to loosen up on some of his "no-sex here" rules. Instead, his husband got whisked away to D.C. the night before and hasn't been home since.

"Happy anniversary," Erik tells him, rather than think about all the little reasons Charles won't fuck him in their kitchen. "I know wood is usually the fifth anniversary, but I think it's okay to cheat just this once."

Watching Charles' mouth fall open is nearly as good as feeling him push harder into Erik's fist

"You're ridiculous," Charles pants, "but yeah, I love you, too."

Erik bends to press a kiss to the side of Charles' mouth and sets himself to jerking his husband off as fast and sure as he knows Charles loves.

He knows that now. He knows the best ways to touch Charles and all the ways not to. He knows what it's like to slide balls deep into Charles and make him cry out. He knows what Charles's mouth tastes like first thing in the morning and right before bed and every hour between.

All the things he thought he would never get to know, he knows.

He knows what the little whine in the back of Charles' throat means. He closes his fist tighter and thumbs at the head of Charles' cock until the whine becomes a shout and Erik watches Charles spill over his hand.

It's their anniversary, so he licks his hand clean, just like he licked himself out of Charles' mouth. His husband groans, but Charles' telepathy is too heavy for Erik to think anything is going to come of it.

_"Shlaf, neshama,"_  Erik murmurs, sliding down the bed so he can arrange Charles between his legs. "I'll be here when you wake."

Charles does.

 

***

 

"Have you met Magda's new friend?" Charles asks over lunch. They got room service so they wouldn't have to get dressed, and with Charles lying naked and freshly showered beside him on the bed, Erik can't find fault with the plan. "He's quite a looker, isn’t he?"

"What happened to no exes in the bedroom?" Erik complains.

Charles harrumphs. "Make an exception. Congressman Horowitz has been a staunch supporter of mutant rights from the start of his career. And you'll be meeting him tomorrow."

"He sounds unbearable."

Wriggling closer, Charles distracts Erik so he can reach out and flick Erik's nose without impediment. "Be nice," he chastises. "Magda likes Ben. And you like Magda." He pauses, tilts his head. “You know, they’d make a good couple-”

“Please don’t try to play matchmaker with my ex-wife. She’ll never forgive me.”

“Come on. Where’s your sense of adventure?”

“Anywhere that doesn’t involve you sticking your nose in Magda’s love life.”

Charles huffs. “Ben is a good man, and he thinks the world of her. I’m not wrong to think they should go out!”

"Oh, Ben now, is he?"

"Don't bother getting jealous. He's not my type. I've already got my hands full with one pushy Jewish man. I don't need two."

Erik is hardly the pushy one, and to prove it, he lets the argument drop in favor of leaning across their dishes to pull Charles into a kiss.

His husband smiles against his lips. Charles does that a lot, smiling when Erik kisses him. His gift is like firelight in Erik's skull; it flickers gently with the warmth of Charles' regard. Erik couldn't complain about it if he wanted to. Which he doesn't. Kissing Charles makes him want to smile, too.

"Two years," Charles breathes when they separate. It's one of his good days, so Erik gets the treat of a cuddly Charles who flops himself between Erik's legs and looks up at him with soft, happy eyes. "Happy second, love."

Erik puts his arms around Charles carefully- _good day, love, it's all right_ \- and pulls him close. "Happy second."

"Sorry we're here and not out in that cabin Logan found for us. I know you were looking forward to it being just the two of us." Charles sighs. "I was looking forward to having you all to myself."

Chuckling, Erik ducks his head to nose at Charles' flop of still-drying curls. He had thought he would be the angry one, but Charles was livid when Magda passed the news about the Kelly Bill's reemergence. "We knew there was a chance Kelly would try something when word got out that you were leaving," Erik reminds him. "There will be other vacations. This is too important not to have you."

"I still wish we were in New Mexico."

"You can get wasted here."

"But here has audiences," Charles whines, dropping his sharp chin on Erik's sternum. _Oops. Sorry, love._

Charles barely drinks these days. Most of his medications come with dire warnings about mixing them with alcohol, but Erik suspects there is more to it than that. Charles regained the spark that made Erik want to be his friend when they were children. He smiles when he teaches and has a spring in his step despite the cane.

Erik isn't arrogant enough to think the two of them getting together cured Charles' habit- the binges that continued into their early days proved that- but Charles has as good as told him Erik helps. Something about equilibrium and Erik's neurotransmitters. Whoever put Charles, a telepath, onto psychology must have wanted to punish humanity. Talking to his husband can feel like Erik is having four simultaneous but different conversations. It's frustrating and caused more than a few arguments, but it's part of Charles. Erik will adjust.

Sharon died three years ago. Erik and Charles were on their second year of dating when Charles found her. Her body just gave out in her sleep according to the M.E. When they buried her, it was Erik who cried, and it was Erik's family that surrounded Charles and Raven, silently mourning with them. Charles stood silent through it all, Erik on one side and Raven on the other. Neither sibling cried. They just stared at the box.

Erik had not expected to miss Sharon as much as he does. She was a unique woman, quick despite her condition, and one of the few who worked out Erik's feelings for Charles. It was at Sharon's urging that Erik spoke up in the end. All the poems she had him read her, all her complaints that her son was miserable on his own... Erik should have suggested his own mother visit with her sooner than he did. The women got along well the few times they were together.

_You miss her._

"She gave me you," Erik replies. They’ve gone over this before.

_It's more than that, though, isn't it?_

"She was kind to a boy too stupid not to get in trouble. There were times I hid in your house, only to get caught by her. She would clean me up without a word, and in the early days, she drove me home herself." Charles frowns. "I take it she never told you."

_Never. She always was terribly good at dodging my gift._

Erik has a theory about that, but he keeps it to himself. "The point is, she never looked down on me. By all rights she should have. Like mother, like son, I suppose."

Charles snorts, drawing his own parallels. _Enough about the dead,_ he declares. _Help me find a diplomatic way to tell Senator Kelly and his posse to sod off._

"'Please sod off,'" Erik suggests, at which his husband rolls his eyes.

_I don't know what else I expected._ Charles thinks for a moment, then sits up. A wicked glint gleams in his eye. "What if we make this more interesting?" he purrs. One of his fingers skims over Erik's chest. "Say, for every paragraph you seriously proofread, I will... hmm..."

"Give me a day off?" Erik supplies helpfully.

Charles squints at him suspiciously. "Fat chance."

"Kiss me, then," Erik suggests. "And when I hand you a speech fit to make a nation weep, you'll fuck me. Good?"

"Fit to make a nation weep, huh? You've got a deal."

Charles lets out a quiet yelp when Erik rockets to his feet, dropping his husband to the bed. "You better get ready," Erik warns him. "I intend to collect on that."

And collect he does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone’s interested, Charles’ symptoms are real and come from a real, if controversial, illness: Lyme disease. Considering he grew up on an estate in upstate NY surrounded by woods, I figured it was a) likely Charles would have gotten it, b) a better candidate for him being disabled than Erik accidentally shooting him in a hunting accident or something. 
> 
> This is the end of the AU here, but I've got some ideas for missing scenes etc. which if I ever actually write I'll post on my [tumblr](http://phalangine.tumblr.com/). In the meantime, feel free to stop by and say hi or leave a prompt! Thank you all so much! You're fantastic(':


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